Never is a Promise
by obeetaybee
Summary: After a ghostly experience, Rose moves on with her life, living it to the fullest by turning her back on the past, even though the past continues to intrude on her new life in unexpected ways. Updated 8-16-04
1. Unwilling to Leave, Unable to Stay

It was a day for new beginnings.

The weather was warm and refreshing, with the sun resting at its zenith high above the ocean in a cloudless, bright blue sky. The wind whispered throughout the crowd gathered along the wharf leaving the pleasant scent of salt water in its wake. Seagulls called to one another incessantly from the sky, swooping to pick up discarded food from the docks. Throughout the concourse came murmuring sounds of people speaking, children laughing and the reverberation of waves gently hitting against the embankment. The attitude of expectation flowed through the launching pier as men, women and children anticipated the beginning of a new life in a new country. It was if the wooden boards beneath their feet vibrated with renewed promise.

Rose stood alone on the pier, apart from the milling crowds in Southampton clutching a large valise.

She stood among the milling crowds waiting to board an ocean liner to start a new life. She was staring out over the rippling water, waiting for the whistle to blow when from the corner of her eye, out of the depths of the sea; she caught a sight so familiar and wrong. Rose spun to look at the huge behemoth standing alone at the other end of the pier.

The ship sat forlorn with dirty dark smudges trailing down its once vibrant exterior, almost as if it sailed through a cloud of coal dust. Somehow, someway, it was docked at the pier and not at the bottom of the ocean where it came to rest that fateful April night.

Rose felt tendrils of coldness invade her body as the blood rushed from her face and limbs. Before she realized what was happening, Rose was running towards it, unknowingly desperate to board that ship. The valise was gone from her hands, forgotten in the melee. Her hat flew off as she pushed her way through the crowd that stood between her and the vessel once known as the ship of dreams. Pins came undone as her hair caught on baggage and people who would not or could not get out of the way. Rose barely gave the pain a second thought as the shiny red curls spiraled down her back, so great was her need to board that steamship.

The porter standing at the gangplank vaguely looked familiar to her. Rose's confusion and disorientation was so great at first she did not notice the shabby and frayed condition of his once sparkling uniform. "Please," she begged as she fought to catch her breath. Her hand clasped her over her heart as she held the other out imploringly. "Let me board." She gasped air for her burning lungs. "Just for a moment, please, I have to find somebody." 'This is absurd, it must be a dream, but I do not care if it is a dream!' She thought petulantly. Even if it was a hallucination the demon memories of that awful night must, at some point have to be exorcised.

The man nodded his head solemnly, as if he read her thoughts and let her pass. She ran up the gangplank and through the hallways not noticing the cobwebs or dust that stirred in her passing. Up the grand staircase with the once beautiful woodwork now dull and decayed. Rushing out through the double doors onto the promenade deck with naked holes that felt like eyes for windows. Was this a ghost ship? Rose was no longer sure she cared. She was strangely not surprised to see no other living person throughout her manic flight. She slowed; her hands grasping the banister for balance as she stumbled down the stairs to the forepart of the ship.

Surrounding the ship was a great gray mist, blocking off her view of the horizon and the pier. She could see a small portion of the calm sea, as if invisible hands were holding the mist at bay away from the wreckage of Titanic. Her footsteps echoed hollowly through the heavy silence of the ship. Gone from view were the dock, and the comfort of the milling crowd. Rose felt abandoned and utterly alone. So many emotions came rushing forward to explode in her memory as she slowly walked to the bow.

Rose was so sure he would be here, as he was waiting once before. Her head was bent; her body slumped in despair as she approached the steel railing. She solemnly knelt at the bow, not paying any mind to dirt and decay and placed her head in her hands. She closed her eyes as wild thoughts whirled angrily around her mind. Is Jack somewhere on this ghost ship? Is he a ghost also? Would he be waiting for her?

Please, she prayed silently to a God that she had given up hope on, let him be here.

If this was a dream, why could she feel the soreness of her skin where her hair was caught and pulled? How was it she could she feel the salt scented breeze as it brushed the long strands across her face? Rose was afraid to pinch herself; she did not want to wake until she was sure Jack was not aboard this ship.

She stood up slowly and placed her hands on the cold metal railing. Memories of another time danced behind her closed eyes. Without standing on the bottom rung she threw her arms out horizontally. "I'm flying," she whispered. Rose recalled the wind rushing through her hair and her scarf trailing behind them, the feeling of exhilaration as she finally allowed herself to be free.

Suddenly, Rose could sense him behind her, his rough hands sliding into her own. She could smell his scent, conte crayon, salt and sunshine. His hair was tickling her cheek as he inclined his head towards hers to place a feather soft kiss on her cheek. His body felt warm and alive as he leaned into her back. "Oh Jack," she whispered as she opened her eyes.

The spell was broken and Rose stood alone.

He was here. Somewhere aboard this ship, he was here. A thrill of frightened anticipation touched her spine. She had to find him, frantically needed to find him. Rose began to run feverishly towards the stern of the ship. The railings began to deteriorate as she raced by them. She remembered the last time she ran down this promenade, only wanting to get off the slave ship taking her home in imaginary chains. She was desperate not to leave this time; she had to stay with Jack.

No matter the consequences.

The stern of the ship approached to fast. The Union Jack, in tatters, hung lifelessly off the rusted and crumbling flagpole. Rose slammed into the railing, reacting with horror as she pulled her rusticle dust covered hands away. She stared at them, her eyes as wide as saucers as she looked towards the stern. Stalagmites were growing off the railing at an alarming rate.

The sea was once again claiming Titanic.

Rose absently wiped her hands on her skirt, spinning as she screamed Jack's name. There was not much time left, she could feel it. "Please let me see you Jack!" She sobbed, her throat threatening to close as she cried his name.

The voice that spoke behind her made her jump and catch her breath.

"I thought I could do it, Rose."

She turned to see him sitting on a barnacle-covered bench. He was leaning forward, staring out over the vast ocean, with his elbows resting on his knees. He turned to her now, his blue eyes looking intensely into her own. Rose swallowed hard with relief as she bit back hot tears.

"I thought I could bring you here to see you, see how life was treating you. Maybe to make sure you don't forget that I'm here waiting for you." He looked down at his hands as he folded them against his knees.

"Oh Jack," Rose gulped hard as the tears overflowed and slowly found their way down her cheeks. She began to walk towards him, but he held up his hand to ward her back.

"No Rose," he whispered harshly. "I can't. I'm not strong enough."

He looked at her with pain filled eyes. "You don't belong here. Not yet."

"I want to be with you Jack, I miss you so much." Rose sobbed as she stretched out her hand, willing him to take it in his own.

Jack stood up slowly and walked over to her. He placed his cold hands on her cheeks and lowered his lips to hers. "I love you so much Rose," he whispered against her lips. He gently, cautiously kissed her, allowing it to deepen as their combined passion took command. Rose felt her knees go weak and her insides quiver at his long denied touch. She clutched him tightly to her, praying he would never let her go. Jack broke the kiss only long enough to look down deeply into her eyes. "But someone else will love you, too. Someone else will need your strength and determination more than I do right now. As much as I want to, I can't keep you here."

He hugged her fiercely to him, as he did that last night as the stern was raised out of the water.

"Rose, what you are doing to yourself, I can't sit back and allow it to happen. I can not have it on my conscious."

"I don't know what you are talking about." Rose looked up at him as her mind refused to register the significance of his words. Jack held her at arms length, staring straight into her eyes. "Rose, I need you to live."

"Jack, you mustn't ever let me go!" Rose cried as she denied the truth and buried her face into his homespun muslin shirt. She could see her tearstains dampening the fabric. She held him so tightly she was sure they would melt into one. She searched his face desperately. "You jump, I jump, right?"

Jack raised his head to rest his chin on her hair. "Oh Rose, not this time. Remember all the things we said we were going to do? Do you remember Rose? Do them. Go ride a horse like a man on the beach and draw portraits on the boardwalk for a dime. Be an actress in the moving pictures. Rose, just please," his voice faltered, "Rose, damn it, live."

Time ceased to exist as she felt his tears on her hair. He pulled back and wiped her tears from her face. "Rose promise me. You promised me before, but promise me again that you will live.

"Live a full and happy life, have lots of babies. When your time comes, we'll be able to spend eternity talking about it, okay? I want you to be able to tell me about all the adventures you've had in your life. I want you to make your life count, Rose. I'll be waiting for you. That's my promise to you. I'll be waiting for you at the clock, like before, I promise."

"I'll never let you go, Jack. You shall always be in my heart," she pressed her face to his chest and swore she heard his heart beating.

"That's the only place I want to be, Rose." He looked down at her sadly. "It's time for me to go."

Rose looked up at him, her eyes filled with desperation. "No Jack! Just when I found you, I have to lose you again?" She cried, a faint thread of hysteria rising in her voice.

"I will always be with you, Rose. I'll never be far, I promise." He kissed her one more time and held her close to his heart. "Come Josephine, in my flying machine and it's up she goes, up she goes..." He sang softly in her ear.

Jack let her go and began to walk away. He turned once and bowed to her deeply, tipping an imaginary hat towards her. "Until we meet again, my lady." He blew her a final kiss, which she caught in her hand and laid over her heart.

He was gone as mysteriously as he arrived.

Alone again, Rose stood on the decayed deck. Her anguish peaked to shatter the last shreds of her control as a raw and primitive grief overwhelmed her. "Jack..." she whispered as her knees gave way and she crumpled to the rotting planking. Her heart felt as if it were going to burst with fear and longing.

She curled herself tight into a cocoon and sobbed, not feeling the warm brush of a hand against her silky hair. She was oblivious to the thick mist which had threatened to overtake the ship earlier rolling over the steel railings, curling around Rose like a piece of gossamer silk.

When she awoke the next morning, she found herself lying in bed with sunshine streaming across her face. She was still curled in ball with her hand clutched over her heart. Her red-rimmed eyes were swollen from crying, her muscles tight from the restraining position she slept in. She rubbed her eyes with fisted hands as she swung her legs over the side of the small, barren bed.

Rose stood on shaky legs and gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Across the room stood a full-length mirror. In her reflection she could see the imprint of her hands in the red rusticle dust stains on her shift.

"I'll never let go Jack." Rose whispered tearfully as she stared at the blemish, so bright against the whiteness of her shift. "I'll never let go..."


	2. Never an Absolution

After her eerie experiences the night before, Rose wasn't sure she was up to the daunting task of facing the world. But facing the world was exactly what she promised Jack she would do.

How could he have known that she was slowly willing herself to death? She stared into the mirror suddenly disgusted with the hollow girl staring back at her. The self-loathing she felt at what she had become was enough to propel her into action.

She slowly brought the shift up and over her head, careful to fold it so the stains would be preserved. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with it yet, but right now the sight of it brought her comfort. Would it become her touchstone, as Jack had become her guardian angel?

She pulled on her wrapper, ignoring the mirror that no longer hid the truth. Her once lustrous hair hung limp and disheveled. The alabaster skin that was coveted by many had a grayish pallor from too much time spent indoors and the shadows under her eyes were almost as large as the trunks that held her belongings on the Titanic. Her figure looked gaunt from staying in her room instead of joining the others for dinner below.

No more, she promised herself. Slowly willing herself to death was not a solution . It was just an escape from reality. It did nothing to stop the nightmares she still suffered from nightly. Nightmares of darkness as she was trapped on the Titanic as the ship sank under the icy cold water. Rose hadn't slept without a gaslight lit since the sinking, but the flickering light never followed her into her nocturnal world. She could still hear the screams and feel her terror every night.

No, death was no longer an option. Living was the only way to make the dreams go away.

The hallway was blessedly empty in the late morning. The boarding house she was living in was owned and operated by Russian immigrants and other than the occasional smell of frying onions, it was actually a pleasant place to stay. It wasn't up to the standards of living that she was once accustomed to, but it offered the anonymity she so treasured.

The landlords were an elderly couple who didn't understand much English but they understood Rose's need to be alone. Rose had paid her rent a year in advance, so other than an occasional smile or nod, they let her be. The other tenants, believing that she was a new widow, also left her in peace. Except for few hand-me- downs the kindly wives had supplied for her, they instinctively knew Rose just wanted to be left alone.

When one of the single men, struck by her tragic beauty, tried to speak to her, an ice cold look her mother would have been proud of was enough to send him on his way.

The bathroom tile was cold, the window frosted over. How could she have forgotten it was October?

In her misery, the passage of time had no meaning to her. She ran the bath fast and hot listening to the copper pipes in the walls groan in protest. When it was ready she undressed quietly and stepped into the steaming water, feeling her feet and legs tingle as the hot water washed over her..

Rose couldn't let herself relax. She was afraid the lethargy that enveloped her for the last six months would return with a vengeance. Instead she dunked her head briskly under the water and soaped her hair. She wondered absently when the last time she washed it. What scared her even more was that she couldn't remember .

She gingerly touched the sore spots on her scalp from the night before. No, it was definitely not a dream. If the stains on her nightgown were not enough to convince her, the aching pain in her head would. She washed and dried herself quickly, again returning to her room. The fire in the fireplace was burning down to embers. She stoked it until the only sound in the room was the crackling and snapping of the wood burning. Once it was warm, she sat down in front of the fire and brushed her hair until it snapped with electricity.

She dressed modestly, binding her breasts, but refusing the corset. The navy blue skirt and white muslin blouse was a bit frayed, but still servicable.

Who was it that needed her? She paused in the packing of her few meager belongings. She wasn't pregnant . Cal had hardly given her a second thought before marrying soon after the sinking. It wasn't her mother, with Rose DeWitt Bukater' s death, Ruth's social position and wealth was secured.

She was sure that her mother grieved for her, hoped that she grieved for her, but need her? Rose shook her head sadly. No, Ruth was too strong to need anyone. Of everything Jack spoke of last night, that cryptic message unsettled her most of all.

With her hair tied in a loose chignon at her crown, she had one last thing to do before she left the house. She pulled up a loose board she found her first day here and pulled out her most precious belonging. She held it in her hand watching how even in the poor light of the bedroom it gathered light and shone with an inner radiance . The stone no longer represented the punishment she would have endured as Caledon Hockley's wife; now it was one of the only physical reminders that she had of Jack.

Rose closed her fist around it and held it to her heart. She reached back in the hole and pulled out the stacks of money Cal had stashed in his coat pockets. She smiled ruefully at small fortune she held in her hand. A small house is what she could buy with all the money she held.

Rose considered it restitution paid for Cal having tried to kill her. With a tight smile and shake of her head the diamond dropped into one hidden pocket, the money in another. How shocked her mother would have been if she could have seen her. Ruth would have admonished her mercilessly about her appearance. Rose now resembled the third class passengers her mother so abhorred . The clothing did nothing to improve her appearance; it only deepened the shadows under her eyes and her cheeks.

Rose looked more like a ghost then Jack. She put on her second hand coat and stared dismally at the four walls that had become her prison. She had escaped one prison only to lock herself in another.

Once again, Jack was there to save her. What would have become of her if he hadn't intervened?

Rose shuddered at the thought. He must have been so disappointed with her. But he never said anything about it, only reminded her of the life she was letting pass her by.

How long before her time was up? Twenty years? Forty? A century?

It really did not matter any longer. The promise that she made was the only light keeping her alive. Rose picked up her suitcase and walked out of the house. As the door shut behind her, she lifted her face to the sunshine and let the warmth wash over her face.

It was finally time to leave the nightmares behind. Time to put Rose DeWitt Bukater to sleep for good.

Rose Dawson had a lot of living to do.


	3. A life so changed

**Five Years Later -- 1917**  
  
It was a long bumpy boring road, Rose had been driving for days and the scenery had yet to change. It seemed as if for miles all she could see were barren fields and horizons of packed brown dirt that met the sky.

Every so often she had to stop to clean the windshield of her Model-T Ford, dust was continually clouding them over and her driving goggles were filthy with sweat and grime.  
  
Suddenly, there was a loud pop as the car gave a lurch toward a ditch and Rose was sent flying into the door. The brakes squealed as she stopped the car, rubbing her arm and cursing to herself as she got out to survey the damage. The pothole the flat tire was laying in was deep and at the bottom lay a broken bottle.  
  
Rose cursed again, louder this time and kicked the hard rubber. The tire was not salvageable, there was a ragged hole ripped through the tread. She knelt down and stuck her fingers into it. Standing again, she gazed at the desolation around her. "Why now?" She moaned. Fifty more miles and she would have made it to Chicago. She took her goggles off and placed them on the top of her driving cap. Back the way she came she remembered seeing a homestead and large outbuildings. Looking forward, she could see more farms dotted across the flat landscape. She sighed, with the houses and farms in the distance it increased her odds there was a town around here somewhere where she could replace the tire.  
  
Rose grabbed her leather satchel from the passenger seat and pulled off her cap and began to walk, kicking dirt up in a cloud around her knees. She thumped the cap against her thigh as she walked, using her other hand to wipe some of the dust from her hair and face. By the time she neared the driveway, she gave up. Her mouth was dry and she knew her face was covered with a light layer of dust. She tried in vain to brush some of the dirt off her trousers as she read the sign on the side of the road.  
  
**Adler's Airfield - Charters & Rentals**  
  
The sign was weatherbeaten and almost illegible. But below it, someone had painted in red "Pilots Wanted/Needed." Rose stared at the sign for a long time, her expression unreadable. After what seemed an eternity, she began to walk towards the house at the end of the lane. It was a modest home standing across from a large structure Rose believed was the hangar. The runway looked clean and well kept, and there was a biplane sitting alone awaiting takeoff.

If nothing else, maybe they could help her with her car. "Here goes nothing," she mumbled..  
  
As she walked, memories of her first stop after she left the boarding house in New York came floating into her consciousness. She had taken the train to Philadelphia and although she knew she wouldn't see her mother, it was still an uncomfortable ride. She had one stop to make in Philadelphia before she started anew.

A hansom cab dropped her off in front of the cemetery where her father was buried. She paid the driver to wait for her, her next train left in two hours. Although it had not changed much since the day they buried her father two years before, it dismayed her to see that someone had erected a large stone angel next to her father's headstone. Rose flinched as she realized it had been erected in memory of her. She stood in front of it looking down at the words written, her face a myriad of emotions.  
  
The inscription read:  
  
Warm summer sun shine kindly here  
Warm summer wind blow softly here  
Green grass above lie light, lie light  
Good-night, dear Rose  
Good-night  
  
Tears welled and overflowed as she read her epitaph. The inscription was beautiful, the angel garish. It was very much out of place in a cemetery of simple headstones. The illusion that she was lying under the ground next to her father instead of lost at sea must give her mother comfort. She shook her head sadly and kneeled at her father's last resting-place. Her heart was aching as she stared at the ground, the tears dropping onto her hands in her lap. She began to pull weeds, not trusting her voice to speak. After a while she cleared her throat and began.  
  
"Hi Daddy," she whispered. "I know I've been gone a long time, I'm sorry. I wish I could explain to you why I've done what I've done. But maybe you understand," her voice trembled.

"I hope you do. I'm very sorry for the pain that I've caused Mother, but if I hadn't left," Rose paused, her voice breaking, "Daddy, I might have really died. Maybe not physically, but I would have only been a shell of the person that I could be."  
  
The angel next to her father's grave gave the impression it was looming over her and she looked up at the angel with a critical eye. "I'm sure that horrible thing wasn't Mother's idea, I hope that brings you some small comfort. It could only have come from Caledon Hockley," she paused and looked around.  
  
Rose could hear the birds chirping in the trees above. The leaves formed a yellow, red and orange canopy over them, letting the sun sparkle through like diamonds. The wind blew a chill wind across her face and Rose shivered. It reminded her that winter was coming soon.

"I don't think you would have liked Cal much, Daddy. You were always able to see past the money to the soul within. I would hope you would have applauded my actions in the end. I know you wouldn't have approved of my methods, but it was the only situation presented to me at the time."

Rose stopped her lonely monologue to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "But Jack, Daddy, I think you would have liked him. Mother might have eventually also, if the circumstances were different." Rose shrugged her shoulders knowing deep in her heart that her mother would never have grown to like Jack or the way they might have lived.

"Jack showed me the stars, Daddy. He taught me how to look beyond them to the galaxies. He taught me there was more to life than teas, parties and cotillions. He was a truly good man and I don't know if I will ever be able to love anyone with as much passion as I loved Jack. He saved my life twice. I suppose even you would have admired anyone for that."  
  
Rose stared down at the ground as the light around her began to wane. "I ... Daddy," her voice broke with a sob. "Daddy I came to say goodbye."

She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand, then looked up at the colorful leaves above her. It seemed as if all she had done for the last six months was cry. "I've been so cold for so long, since the night that damn ship sank. I'm tired of the tears; I'm tired of the pain. I'm tired of trying to live through that pain."

She rubbed her hands over her forearms to warm herself. A memory of Rose and her father sliding down a snow covered hill in a homemade toboggan made her smile softly. "I think I'm going to spend some time down south. Maybe go to New Orleans, I still remember all too well the Philadelphia winters.

"I never forgot the holiday we took there when I was ten," Rose stopped again and looked towards where the cab was waiting for her. "I don't know when I'll be able to return to visit you Daddy. I'll try and come back again, I promise. I'm a much stronger person now, for knowing Jack. I loved him and I lost him in such a short period of time. But in the process, I rediscovered me."

Rose stood up and stretched her back. "I hope you'll watch over me also. I don't know if Jack will be able to handle it." She smiled mischievously and a shadow of the old Rose shone through. The Rose who danced the night away in the third-class common room, smoking, drinking and enjoying her youth.

"I have a feeling I might need all the help I can get." She brushed the dead grass off her hand-me-down skirt and bent to pluck a bud from the bouquet of flowers on her memorial. She placed the flower on the top of her father's stone and laid her hand on it for the last time.

Then she walked away.


	4. Miles to go before I sleep

The sun was intense and hot as the house came closer. Not a car nor a wagon had come by as she made her way up the driveway. There were no wires along the road, so more then likely the house did not have a telephone. She wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead and pulled her long braid to the side to allow some airflow to her neck. She shook the front of her shirt, feeling it stick to her back. She blew her breath out, silently cursing her car.

When she was only a few feet from the porch a petite woman came out, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her gray hair was tied back in a chignon, and her face held a warm smile.

"Can I help you?"   
  
Rose stopped and placed her hands on her hips. She found that she had to squint from the sun in order to see the woman clearly. "My car blew a tire up on the road and I was hoping to get a ride to the nearest garage?" Rose prayed that there was a garage around here somewhere. The warm smile grew broader as she motioned Rose up onto the porch and into the shade of the overhang. She did not act at all surprised to see a young woman in trousers traveling alone.  
  
"Let me call my husband to help you, I don't drive, I'm sorry."

Rose put down her satchel, expecting the woman to turn and go into the house to summon her husband. Instead the woman cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted her husband's name. Rose was so surprised, she almost fell off the porch. She turned towards the hangar where she could see the outline of a man come out into the sunlight.  
  
"What?" Came the answering call.  
  
This time Rose braced herself as the woman shouted, "company!"  
  
"Oh," she exclaimed. "Where are my manners? My name is Mrs. Charles Adler, but please call me Sarah. Would you like a cool drink?" She offered Rose her hand, which she took after trying in vain to find a clean spot on her shirt to wipe it first. Sarah Adler laughed, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "Dear, a little dirt will wash away."  
  
Rose smiled at her warmly. "My name is Rose Dawson."  
  
"Well it's very nice to meet you, Rose Dawson." Sarah said as she held the screen door open for Rose. "Come on in and quench that thirst. It has been an unusually hot and dry spring this year." She looked pointedly at Rose's dirty boots and trousers. "How does some lemonade sound?"  
  
"Heavenly." Rose breathed as she closed the door slowly to keep it from slamming shut. The kitchen was small, but cozy and it managed to capture a small breeze from the open windows. It was a spotless room and the table in the center was covered with a blue and white checked tablecloth.  
  
"Sit, sit." Sarah ordered as she pulled a glass pitcher out of the icebox.  
  
Rose gratefully fell into her chair and then exclaimed a small, "Oh, Mrs. Adler," when she saw the dirt she tracked in across the hard wood floor. "I'm so sorry!"

She got up to look for a broom, something, anything to clean up after herself. When she couldn't find anything she began to walk back out the back door but Sarah's chuckle made her stop and turn around.  
  
"Please call me Sarah, and I shall call you Rose." She waved Rose back over to her seat. "Some nights you should see this place. Especially if Charlie and my boys have been out there tinkering with an engine for hours. Those three leave their mark on everything before they manage to clean up after themselves."

Sarah handed Rose her glass of lemonade and sat down across from her. "My sons, Douglas and Owen are flying observation planes in France. I do hope this horrible war is over soon, they've been gone for almost six months now."  
  
Rose sipped her lemonade, feeling the ice-cold liquid slide down her throat and hit her empty belly, tingling their way into her overheated limbs. She savored it for a moment, closing her eyes. It cooled the sweat that was pooling on her forehead and almost made her feel human again. She opened them to find Sarah watching her with amusement.  
  
"What brings you through Collier's Grove?" She asked as she leaned forward in her chair.  
  
Rose did not hesitate in answering her question, although she had learned through the years that the least information given was not usually enough to satisfy the curious.  
  
"I'm on my way to Chicago, to find work in an art museum." Rose answered as she sipped her lemonade. She made sure her eyes were wide and guileless.  
  
"Enjoy art, do you?" Sarah asked as she sipped her drink. At Rose's nod, she smiled. "Do you have family up that way?"  
  
Rose crossed her legs under the table and prepared to give the story she had concocted for herself so many years ago. "No, my family is from the East Coast. My late husband's family resides in Wisconsin. I also thought I might visit them. There are many roads that I can take."  
  
Sarah nodded, her eyes saddened by the news of Rose's loss. She knew there was something about the girl, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Sarah was not a stupid woman, she could tell that Rose was being evasive in her answers. But she did not know this girl. Did not know her family or her past. It had always been Sarah's way to accept people at face value and usually her first impressions were correct. This girl was harmless. She might be a little lost on her quest for life, but harmless all the same.  
  
"I lost my first husband also, it was pneumonia, back in..."  
  
Whatever she was about to say was lost in the slamming of the screen door as Charles Adler entered the kitchen. He was a large man, given more to muscle then fat, towering over his petite wife by almost two feet. He had salt-and-pepper hair and severe black eyes. He glanced at Rose only for a second before making his way to the water pump at the sink to wash his hands. He turned towards her, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Rose hid a smile as she saw the grease stains on the towel. Sarah rolled her eyes and winked conspiratorially at Rose. She rose from her chair as Charles came towards her, holding his hand out to shake.  
  
"Charlie Adler, what can I do you for?" He asked. The handshake he gave was matter-of-fact and Rose returned the pressure as she introduced herself.  
  
"Rose has a problem with the tire on her car, dear." Sarah said as she walked over to place a kiss on his cheek. Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep her from smiling at the sight of seeing the large man bend almost halfway to accommodate his wife.  
  
He looked at her pointedly before speaking. "What about the spare?" He asked.  
  
"That was the spare." Rose replied, feeling as if she were child again, under interrogation. "I blew the other tire in a rainstorm outside of Toledo last Tuesday. I was hoping this one would last until I was able to replace it in Chicago."  
  
"You changed the tire yourself?" Charlie asked, incredulous.  
  
"Mr. Adler, it would hardly be wise for me to travel from New Orleans to Chicago without first being aware of the equipment that was taking me there." Rose sighed, tired of the way men always seemed to expect women to be fragile, insipid creatures.

"All I require is a lift to town where hopefully I can buy a tire so I can be on my way." And out of your hair, Rose thought to herself. There was something about Charlie Adler that told her that she needed to be mentally on guard at all times.  
  
"Hmmm...I could. But not today." Charlie smiled at Rose. There was a new light in his eyes, amusement.  
  
"Charlie!" Sarah exclaimed. "Why can't you take Rose to town? Don't you dare tell me that it is because of that engine sitting in the hangar. It's been sitting there for two months..."  
  
Charlie turned to placate his wife. "Now Sarah, there's a storm coming. I can feel it in my knees. It will take at least an hour to tow Ms. Dawson's car and the plane into the hangar, by that time the garage will be closed. You know how Henry likes to close up early on Fridays and head to the bar."  
  
Sarah nodded and sat back down at the table. Rose still stood; she did not feel comfortable enough to sit yet in the presence of Charlie Adler.  
  
"She can sleep here tonight and first thing in the morning after Henry drops off the mail I'll drive Ms. Dawson to town to replace her tire. Then she can resume her adventure." Charlie turned to go back out the door. "Let's go get my truck Ms. Dawson..."  
  
"Rose, please call me Rose." She said as she started out the door after him.  
  
"Okay Rose, let's go get that car of yours hitched up and towed into the hangar. Where'd you manage to get a car anyway?" Unlike Sarah, Charlie did find it odd to see a woman with a car traveling alone.  
  
"I won it in a poker game." Rose replied. Charlie halted, shocked, his mouth hanging open.  
  
Rose smiled deviously as she shrugged her shoulders. "Scandalous, isn't it?"

The storm that Charlie promised broke sometime after midnight. A long loud rumble of thunder awoke her and she lay in bed, at first not sure where she was. Painful memories of the sounds of groaning metal came uninvited into the room with her. The overwhelming fear she felt as she leaned against the wall, looking for someone to help Jack, when the lights went out washed over her. She was more terrified at that instant then when she and Jack were on their final descent into the sea.

At least then they had been together.

Rose sighed as she regretfully sat up and pulled on her wrapper. Once the memories began, she knew it would be awhile before she would be able to get back to sleep. The lantern next to her bed illuminated her face with a warm glow as she touched the lit match to the wick. Once she could see, she picked her satchel up from the floor and laid it on the bed. Sewn into the underlining was the Heart of the Ocean. The threads came loose in her hands as she picked at the stiches with her fingernails. She pulled the blue diamond out and looked at it intently. It had been so long since she held it in her hands. So many times she had come close to selling it, so many times she thought she was that desperate. Finally she had finally ripped a hole in the bottom of her satchel and shoved it in hoping that if it were out of sight, it would also be out of mind.

It had worked for awhile, but now here she was, haunted by her memories, alone in the middle of a thunderstorm.  
  
Lightning flashed, weaving a jagged trail across the midnight sky. She silently opened her door and crept out into the darkened hallway. Outside, thunder rumbled ominously. She could hear Charlie snoring as she made her way past their closed doorway. Rose winced as her foot hit a soft spot in the wood. She hoped the creak would be covered by the sound of thunder.

Once in the kitchen, she blew the light out and placed the lantern on the kitchen table. She opened the back door silently, keeping sure that the screen door did not slam. The air was moist and humid, heavy with a smell of ozone. The Illinois countryside might not offer much to see during the day, but at night the sky was so clear she could see for miles. Off in the distance the threatening dark mass of clouds was rolling in, lightning weaving from one small cloud to another. She sat down on the step and leaned back against the pole supporting the roof. Rose was hoping the storm would take her mind off the past.  
  
The nightmares no longer came with the regularity that they used too, but occasionally she would still awake at night bathed in sweat, her pulse beating erratically. She would never so much awaken from these dreams, but explode from the freezing deep frantically gasping for breath. In the dark she was so sure she was in the sea, she would sometimes scream Jack's name before her rational mind took over. The lights would go on and Rose would spend the rest of the night huddled under blankets shivering, waiting for dawn. It seemed that sometimes all it took was a phrase she heard, or a certain smell during the day and it would propel her subconscious mind back to that night in April 1912 when the ship of dreams sank.  
  
"I miss you, Jack," she whispered into the wind. A crack of lightning made her look up, her face awash in its brilliant white flash. A few moments later, thunder answered its call.

Rose brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "I've done and seen so many things these past five years, I almost think I could spend eternity telling you all about them. But I know its not enough. I still haven't made my way to California. I haven't ridden on the beach yet. That almost seems like it should be the climax of my life, what we said we were going to do. Can you imagine me an old woman, gray hair flying, galloping on the beach?" Rose laughed chuckled softly. "But here, in this place, I feel like I'm home."  
  
The storm was almost upon the homestead. The air had grown very still, the night sounds silenced.  
  
"Here, in this place, with these people, I can be simply Rose. Not Rose DeWitt Bukater, not even Rose Dawson. Just plain Rose. But there is so much life out there that needs to be lived."

And miles to go before I sleep, she thought sadly as she watched the rolling clouds.  
  
Occasionally, she wondered if she would be able to love anyone the way she loved Jack. She missed the feelings that came of being in love, the giddiness and the all-consuming passion that one feels when they are totally, utterly adored. She wished for a love that was pure and intense.

But would she find that she loved that person more than Jack? Would it be unfair to him or his memory? Would she be able to completely give herself body and soul to another man? She had brief flirtations in her past, but either by her own design, or the other person, it never grew into anything more. How odd would it feel to have a crush on someone again? Of all her adventures, the one she had yet to embark on was one of the heart. When she was a stage actress with the "Theatre des Orleans" she had earned the nickname "Ice Princess". It amused her greatly on the outside, but on the inside it cut her to the bone. Had that fragile part of her gone down with Jack?  
  
Deep inside she realized that her trepidation at falling in love was the fear of losing someone again. She was afraid that it would be enough to catapult her over the edge. When Jack died she was left alone to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart. Before then, in her Edwardian innocence, she had never imagined that God could or would be that cruel. But what was living without also loving? The way she felt about love, she didn't know. Were we able to have more than one love of a lifetime? Or had she met and lost her one true soul mate?

Looking at Sarah and Charlie tonight over dinner it was easy to be envious of the love that they shared. She watched them when they weren't aware and sometimes all it was a gentle look or soft touch that was enough for them to say 'I love you'. Rose sighed in confusion, bowing her head so her cheek rested on her knees.  
  
Suddenly the wind began to howl. Rose held her face up to the sky, basking in the cool breeze. Her hair began to fly about as if the strands had a life of their own, like Medusa's snakes. She pulled it over to one side and held it in her hand. The rain had yet to come, when the rain began she would go back up to bed and let its staccato rhythm lull her to sleep.  
  
Unbeknownst to her, Charlie stood in the shadow of the screen door. Regardless of how much noise he might make snoring, he was a light sleeper. He had heard the floorboards creak and got out of bed to investigate. He watched Rose from the darkened stairway as she crept out onto the back porch. Curious, he followed her.

He hadn't meant to overhear, but then again he wasn't expecting her to talk to herself either. He was touched by what she said; realizing that Rose Dawson was more of an enigma then he first imagined. Twenty years ago, Sarah had given birth to their last and only child, a daughter, who was stillborn. She would have been about Rose's age now. He wondered what his daughter would have been like if she had been allowed to live. Would she be as strong and self-sufficient as Rose Dawson was?

Charlie shook his head as he made his way back up the stairs. She would have probably been married with children by now, her husband off fighting in the Great War. He laid back down in bed, shushing Sarah as she stirred in her sleep.  
  
Rose sighed as the rain began to fall in quarter sized drops. She stood up, hesitating before she went back upstairs. The rain soon turned into a downpour and the feel of the mist on her closed eyes relaxed her enough to sleep. She went back inside and up the stairs as it began to beat a staccato rhythm on the tin roof. She hoped it would be so loud she would not be able to concentrate on anything else except its erratic tempo.

She crawled back into bed, the Heart of the Ocean held tight in her fist.


	5. Come Josephine in my Flying Machine

The next morning, the slamming of the screen door awakened Rose. She jerked her head up from the pillow, her long red hair hanging in her face. Moving it aside impatiently, she glanced to the window. Pale gray light tinged with pink spilled from the glass across the room. Somewhere on a distant farm she could hear a rooster crowing. She groaned and buried her head back into the pillow.

A few minutes later, the door slammed again. Rose rolled over onto her back and sat up grumbling. Doesn't that man do anything quietly? She thought to herself as she swung her legs onto the floor. The hand holding the diamond was cramped from clutching the blue gem all night. Flexing the hand, she reached underneath the pillow, pulling the necklace out into the sunlight, watching blue shadows fire against the wall. Sighing, she placed it back in the hole at the bottom of her bag and buttoned it shut. She stood and turned towards the window, breathing deeply of the fresh spring air.  
  
Last night when Sarah was showing her the bedrooms she was so tired she took the first door she had come to. She was now regretting letting lack of sleep rule her decision. The room was nice, if a little bare. It was certainly not the bedroom of one of the family. It had an emptiness about it, with plain white walls and a faded oriental rug on the floor. The metal frame bed was covered by a faded patchwork quilt and there was night stand that held the hurricane lamp she had used the night before alongside of the bed. The wooden floor was cool in the early morning hour where it wasn't covered by the rug. Along the north and east falls, four windows allowed a nice cross-breeze and plenty of the early morning sun.

But it was directly over the kitchen and the offending screen door.   
  
The clear blue sky showed no traces of the storm that raged the night before. Rose bathed quickly from the pitcher and basin on the dresser and donned a pair of dark brown trousers and a homespun muslin shirt. She still marveled at the amount of movement the trousers allowed and how odd it felt the first few times she had worn them, not used to her legs swinging free. It was if she had to learn to walk all over again because she was so used to the restraint of the pencil thin dresses in style. Smiling gently to herself, she realized she had not worn a dress outside of the theatre in over six months. She brushed her long red hair until it shone and nimbly plaited it into a thick braid that hung down her back. Once complete, she found her way downstairs to the kitchen.   
  
"Good morning, dear," Sarah greeted her with a large smile as she opened the oven to place biscuits on the metal rack. "Sleep well?" Charlie had already told her of Rose's midnight excursion to the back porch.   
  
"Well enough, Sarah," Rose sniffed the air appreciatively. "Is that coffee I smell?"   
  
Sarah nodded and filled a white ceramic cup. As she handed Rose the mug, she headed over to the ice box. "The milkman and the ice man came early this morning. Everything is fresh. Would you like some cream for your coffee?"  
  
Rose shook her head and told her she liked her coffee black. "Where's Charlie?" Rose asked as she sipped the hot beverage, feeling the much needed caffeine flow through her veins.   
  
"In his office, Owen's plane will be landing with the mail today and Charlie is just going over the log and checking any last minute arrangements," Sarah smiled, watching Rose stand at the back door staring at the hangar. "Go on out there, dear. He should be arriving with the first load any minute now. As soon as it is unloaded, Charlie can give you a lift to town."   
  
Rose put down her cup and thanked Sarah again for her hospitality. Sarah waved her off and Rose was out the door striding across the dry field between the house and large red barn they used at the hangar. Rose winced as the back door slammed.  
  
The sky was an azure blue, the fluffy white clouds spread out over the vastness of the plains. At least the storm cooled down the temperature a bit, she thought as she pushed aside the wisps of hair escaping her braid. Halfway across the field she became aware of buzzing sound, almost as if an angry bee were flying above her head. Where was it? Where was the sound coming from? She shielded her eyes from the sun, turning to scan the horizon and saw it, a tiny dot in the sky. Charlie came out of the hangar, flags in his hands, ready to guide the pilot onto the runway.  
  
The small plane flew over her head and landed gracefully against the hard packed ground, leaving Rose breathless with envy.   
  
She began to jog towards the runway as the plane came to a complete stop, the propeller winding down. The pilot jumped out of the cockpit and pulled off his goggles and flying cap. Rose stopped short with a gasp, feeling the blood run from her face. Suddenly, she wanted to turn back and run back to the house, her instincts screaming to run and hide. It's impossible! She thought to herself. The pilot shook Charlie's hand and they both turned to face her. Charlie waved her over, but Rose's feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground.   
  
The man looked so much like Cal they could have been twins.   
  
As she came closer and the pilot's features came more into focus, it became apparent although the pilot and Cal did resemble one another enough for it to be uncanny, the pilot's eyes were kind, not arrogant. His face held a warm smile as he spoke to Charlie. Still, Rose felt wary and watched him carefully as she walked slowly over to the red BI-plane.   
  
At first when he saw Charlie wave to someone over his shoulder, Owen thought maybe Charlie had finally managed to scare up some help with the chores while his sons were off in the war. But as the fellow came closer, Owen felt a shock of surprise to see a beautiful young woman approaching them. His eyes widened in astonishment when she was a few feet away.  
  
She was the first woman he had ever laid eyes on dressed as a man. The trousers and tailored shirt did nothing to hide the voluptuous figure underneath. Owen felt his breath catch in his throat.   
  
"Who is that?" He asked Charlie under his breath and just before she came into earshot. "And where can I get one?"   
  
Charlie shot him a dirty look over Rose's head. He was beginning to feel very paternal towards Rose Dawson and did not like at all what Owen was implying. Owen was thunderstruck by Rose's beauty. He couldn't stop staring at her full red lips and slightly golden smooth skin. Her blue eyes shone with intelligence and wisps of copper curled against her forehead. Owen smiled with deep regret. It was to bad he was leaving for France in a week. She was someone he would have loved to gotten to know better.   
  
"Rose Dawson, please meet one of our finest pilots, Owen Morrow," Charlie said as he clapped a hand on Owen's shoulder and smiled broadly.   
  
"Right now I'm your only pilot."

Owen did not quite know what to make of the expression on Rose's face. Her pretty lips were pursed as if she had sucked on a sour piece of candy. Not the reaction that he was used to from women. He smiled easily as he extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Dawson."   
  
Rose stared at his hand, hesitating for a split second, with both Charlie and Owen catching her reluctance. She took his hand lightly and shook it briefly.

"Thank you, Mr. Morrow." Neither of the men had ever met Rose's mother but they just witnessed a very chilling likeness in Rose's voice. They exchanged odd looks over Rose's head.   
  
"Well," Charlie said to break the uncomfortable silence. "How about we get those mailbags unloaded, shall we? Sarah should be calling us for breakfast soon."

He walked over to his truck, converted from a Model -T car to a flat bed truck, shaking his head in confusion. He was sure if he knew Rose Dawson for one hundred years; he would never understand what was going on in that silly female head of hers.   
  
After Charlie walked away, the silence that surrounded Rose and Owen deepened. "So," said Owen rocking on his heels. "How'd you end up at Adler's Airfield?"   
  
Rose looked up at him and then quickly away. It was disconcerting to be close to someone who looked so very much like Cal. She shrugged to hide her confusion before answering him. "Car trouble," she mumbled, kicking the ground with her boot.

Cal was someone that she had never expected to see or hear from again. Of everything that happened since the sinking of Titanic, he was the one person she found who was the easiest to forget.

But now, facing his doppelganger, she found it was difficult to steady her erratic pulse. Cal was a thousand miles away, ensconced in his world of steel mill takeovers and society parties. She was sure that Cal needed a woman to complete his picture of perfection, but she knew Cal wasn't capable of loving anyone except the all mighty dollar.

The steel business must be booming with the war, she thought as she ran her palm over her eyes. Her imagination conjured up a vision of him gleefully rubbing his hands over piles of money rapidly growing larger, at the cost of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. She shook her head to banish the intrusive thought and looked away from Owen Morrow.   
  
Owen nodded slowly, also confused. He shook his head in bafflement and decided to try another approach. "Have I met you somewhere before?"

He didn't think he could have forgotten a face like hers, but from her reaction to him, he wasn't sure.   
  
"No, Mr. Morrow..." Rose began.   
  
"Owen, please call me Owen."   
  
"No, Mr...Owen, we have not met before," A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. "I'm sorry, it's...it's just you remind me of someone I knew once, a long time ago."   
  
"Must have been someone you didn't like very much," Owen said dryly.   
  
Rose couldn't help herself as she burst out laughing. She glanced at Owen's stricken face, which made her laugh harder. "Mr. Morrow...Owen, that is an understatement." She couldn't hide the laughter from her voice. But it scared her, this emotional roller coaster that she was on. For so long now, she thought she finally had that awful night under control deep inside of herself. Between the painful memories last night and Owen today; she felt she was being haunted by her past.   
  
Owen stood stock still. When he first saw her, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. But when she threw her head back and he heard that deep, warm, rich sound, he realized she was hiding something painful behind her laughter. All other thoughts were swept away as he watched Rose Dawson begin to compose herself. He wished he had more time to spend at Adler's Airfield so he could unravel this mysterious woman. But he had already made plans to spend as much time as possible with his family before he shipped out to France.   
  
Charlie rumbled his truck over so he and Owen could begin to unload the cargo area of the plane. Owen stood on the wing, throwing the bags to Charlie who was tossing them onto the back of the flatbed.   
  
"May I help?" Rose asked.   
  
Charlie was about to demur when Owen threw a mailbag striking Rose in the chest.

"Ooof."

Rose's breath rushed out in surprise. Her arms instinctively wrapped around the twenty pound bag. She stumbled backwards to compensate for the extra weight, but managed to stay on her feet. She heaved the bag onto the flatbed and opened her arms in time to catch another. Before they knew it, the cargo area was empty and the flatbed full. Rose smiled with an air of calm and self-confidence, her emotions once again under control.   
  
She turned towards the house as Sarah was yelling for them to come and get breakfast.   
  
"Let's go," Charlie growled, opening the driver's side door of the truck. "I'm starving."

Rose was shoved in the middle of two men she had just met and barely knew. She felt her body tighten as she struggled not to jostle either of them on the short ride to the house.   
  
The smell of fresh eggs, pancakes, sausages and home fries wafted through the open door and Rose's stomach gave a very unladylike growl. Both men turned to look at her and she smiled sheepishly as she followed them up the porch steps.

Rose's belly was fuller than it had been in a long, long time. Somehow she had the feeling if she hung around here to long she would out grow her few precious pairs of trousers. Throughout the whole meal she could feel the heavy weight of Owen's eyes on her. She resisted the urge to blatantly return his stare, instead attacking her breakfast as if she were a condemned man on death row.

She suddenly craved a cigarette, which she hadn't wanted since she departed New Orleans.   
  
"When do you leave for France?" Charlie asked Owen as he shoveled Sarah's homemade biscuits into his mouth.   
  
"Friday," Owen replied. "I have to take a train from Chicago to Pier 54 in New York and then I sail on the Mauretainia for France."   
  
Rose choked on her orange juice, spilling it into her lap. All eyes swung to her. Sarah got up to bang on her back but Rose waved her away. "I'll be okay," she said choking on her words. "I must have swallowed wrong."   
  
Owen's eyes narrowed. He had been watching her face and was surprised to see recognition flash across her features.

"Sailed the Mauretainia before, have you Rose?" He asked quietly.   
  
Rose took a quick breath of total astonishment. She couldn't rally quick enough to hide her surprise at his question, so she nodded her head silently. "Quite a few years ago, actually. My family took a holiday abroad, we sailed on the Mauretainia to England. Is it safe enough to pass with the U-boats out and about?" She asked, trying to turn the conversation away from her and her past.   
  
Owen looked at her, his eyes, so like Cal's, hooded like those of a hawk. "Safe enough, I imagine. America is a force to be reckoned with. Although we are at war, I don't think those Jerries would want to get us riled by torpedoing a ship with American troops on board."   
  
"I agree," Charlie said as he pushed back his plate and rose from the table. "Owen will be joining our sons in the 94th Aero Squadron. If you don't mind, Owe, Sarah and I have some letters we would like to deliver to the boys once you get settled." Owen nodded, since he knew both Doug and Rob since grammar school.   
  
"I still can't believe how quiet it is around here with the both of them gone." Sarah said wistfully as she smiled at Jason. "Now you're off, too. I suppose I always knew it was a matter of time before you followed them to France, the three of you were always inseparable." She looked up her eyes full of tears.

"Tell them I miss them something fierce, will you please?"   
  
Owen nodded sadly. He would miss the Adler's' as much as he would miss his own parents. But the war was where he belonged. He also missed his two best friends and was eager to join them in their adventures.   
  
"Come on, Owen. Let's go get that plane of yours gassed up so you can get on out of here. Rose, I'll be ready to go to town in an hour." Charlie's voice sounded odd, as if he had something stuck in his throat. He walked out of the back door without a second glance and for the first time he did not let the screen door slam behind him.   
  
Sarah got up from the table as hugged Owen tightly. "You be careful, hear me?" She said as tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. "Let my two boys take care of you like I know you'll be taking care of them." Owen nodded solemnly and bid Rose good-bye. Sarah stood proudly as she moved to the door to watch him walk across the field, as if she were afraid it was the last time she would see him.   
  
Rose cleared and washed the breakfast dishes to take her mind off her troubles. She liked Sarah immensely and did not realize until today how brave she was with both of her sons in France. If anything happened to them, she would lose two of the most precious people of her life. She admired this tiny petite woman for the courage she was able to show during this troubling war.

Before too long she heard the buzz of the airplane's engine and walked out onto the porch to join Sarah as she watched Owen take off for home. They stood there until they could not hear the sound of the engine or see the small BI- plane in the clouds. They turned together as one and finished the cleaning in silence.

On their way to town, Charlie spoke of his two sons. "It was Doug who got us into the airplane business. When he heard of what the Wright brothers accomplished back in '03, you would have thought he'd died and gone to heaven. It didn't take long for that enthusiasm to spread to his brother Rob. Those two boys were always inseparable. They were the most well behaved pair of brothers that I ever laid my eyes on.

"When the fields dried up, oh six or seven years ago, Doug said 'Let's build us an airfield, Pop. We're in a prime location for deliveries to Chicago, Philadelphia and St. Louis. The future is in the air!'" Charlie smiled at the memory.

"Mind you that boy was only twenty-two years old then; when he bought his first plane with the money their father left him, a beautiful Curtiss-Jenny. Robbie must have been going on nineteen. Doug was a natural flyer, and under his tutorial Robbie and I became halfway decent pilots too. We had a booming business there, with government contracts and all, but who can predict a war? I suppose we should have seen it coming, with all the atrocities going on over there, but I guess we literally had our heads in the clouds."

He smiled sadly. "Now all the pilots and young men are over in a foreign country, fighting a foreign war. Owen was our last pilot and he's off to fight for freedom too," he shook his head ruefully.

Silently, he prayed for the safekeeping of his adoptive sons and for Owen as he pulled turned his truck into town.   
  
Rose tried to smile with more confidence then she felt. "I'm sure they will be home soon." She had seen legions of young men standing on train platforms, waiting for trains that would whisk them to New York, their uniforms so crisp and new. Most of them hardly looked old enough to be out of school, let alone off to fight a war. Charlie smiled at her with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes as he nodded in agreement.   
  
The town of Collier's Grove filled one square mile. It had a Main Street, complete with the usual stores and large houses. Side streets wound around Main Street in a small circle. It was a quaint little town.

He pulled the truck in front of the post office and turned off the engine. Charlie smiled as he got out of the truck. "We'll drop this load off at the post office and head on over to Henry's."

Rose's tire was lying on the back of the flatbed among the bags of mail. She helped with the unloading, much to the surprise of the old clerk who stood opened mouthed, staring at her legs. "If you have to shock them," Rose remembered one of the older women in theater troop saying, "shock them good."   
  
She rolled her tire down the half block to Henry's garage without assistance from Charlie. He had offered, but she refused, much to his chagrin. It still managed to amaze her, women and men were still so scandalized by her public appearance in trousers. She could imagine they thought of her as one of those 'fast' women. Rose tried to smile at a woman passing her on the street, but the older woman sniffed and raised her nose in the air. Rose smiled wickedly at Charlie and remarked, "People fear what they don't understand, Charlie, it's a fact of my life."

He returned her smile and nodded in agreement.   
  
Henry Toggle was an overweight man with greasy hair and an even greasier smile. Rose was appalled by his smell: motor grease and body odor. He clenched an unlit cigar between his teeth as he shook Charlie's hand, while he stared unabashed at Rose. He shook her hand and tried to let the handshake linger, but she snatched it back. Her mouth curled up in disgust as her hand came away black and grimy. She could not resist the urge to wipe the grease off her hand but she did not want to wipe it on her clean trousers. Her hand just hung there in the air, fingers twitching with disgust. She smiled gratefully at Charlie as he handed her his clean handkerchief.   
  
"Whatcha need?" Henry asked as his gaze wandered over her face, her breasts and her legs. Rose felt incredibly dirty and angered just being around this horrid man. She combated the urge to point to her eyes and yell, "Here I am, here! Look me in the eyes, not my breasts!" But she knew tit would be futile. Men like Henry Toggle tended to be turned on by women with uppity airs. Besides, she needed something from this man and until she got it she would have to remain uncomfortably in his presence.   
  
"I need a tire, Henry." Charlie said stiffly and Rose realized he did not like Henry Toggle much either.   
  
Henry shook his head and smiled, allowing Rose to see several gaps where teeth once resided. "No tires. Next shipment expected in 60 days."   
  
"You sure about that, Henry?" Charlie asked quietly.   
  
"Yup. Backed up cause of the war. Nuthin' I can do about it," he smiled lustfully in Rose's direction again. She suddenly realized that Charlie was slowly edging in front of her to block her from Henry's view. He thanked Henry and they turned around and walked out single file so Charlie would block Rose's receding backside.   
  
"What an awful man!" Rose exclaimed when they were out of earshot. "If I hadn't needed a tire, I may have...I may have had to punch him in that red, ugly, bulbous nose!"   
  
Charlie laughed at the idea of diminutive Rose punching someone like Henry. He too had to quench the urge to take Henry out back and beat him senseless, but he also had to resist the urge to admonish Rose on her uncovential attire, which only added fuel to the leering man's libido.

They walked back to the truck in silence. "You know you're welcome to stay with Sarah and me until your tire is ready." Charlie said as he climbed into the cab of the truck. He felt bad that Rose would have to be stuck here for six weeks and felt she would be safer from men like Henry back at his farm.   
  
Rose nodded as she shut her door. "I'll pay you for the room and board." Charlie tried to argue, but Rose was not listening to him protest. They drove in silence the rest of the way home. As they pulled into the drive, Rose opened her mouth and closed it several times, obviously working up the nerve to speak. As the house came near, she suddenly blurted out:   
  
"Teach me to fly, Charlie."   
  
He stopped the truck outside the house, but made no move to get out of the cab. He stared straight at the empty fields in front of him, weighing her words in his mind.

"No, Rose," he said finally as he opened the driver's side door and moved to get out of the cab.   
  
Rose jumped out of the truck and slammed the door. She hurried around the hood of the truck to stand toe to toe with Charlie. "What do you mean, no?" A sudden thin chill hung on the edge of her words.   
  
"Women are not meant to fly," he said, putting his hands on his hips, as he looked down at her.   
  
Rose's eyes widened in disbelief as her face flushed with fury. "Women were not meant to fly? How do you know that Charlie? Have you ever given a woman a chance to learn to fly?"   
  
"No Rose, I haven't given a woman a chance to fly and I'm not about to now." Like her voice, his too began to rise. "You'll either kill yourself or take me along with you."   
  
Sarah came around the house where she had been working in her garden; her tan face lined with worry. She had been drawn by sound of their raised voices. They were not yelling yet, but they would be soon. She stood there silently, wiping her sweating brow with her forearm.   
  
"What means do you have to base that observation on?" Rose asked, her blue eyes blazing. She knew she had not known Charlie long, but he always seemed like he was a reasonable man. It never even crossed her mind until later that this man could have thrown her out of his home without a second thought.   
  
"I don't need any means," he spat. "It's a fact of life. You're a woman, women do not fly."   
  
Rose's temper exploded. "How dare you! Of all the pompous, arrogant things to say! I'll let you in on a little secret, Charlie. I have lived on my own for five years, since I was seventeen years old. I have climbed the Adirondack Mountains and I've gone gator hunting in the bayous of Louisiana. I've even dressed as a man and visited the red light district of New Orleans. I've survived a shipwreck, a tornado and a hurricane.

"I've also driven alone in my car halfway across the country. I think I could learn to fly a damn airplane if given half a chance."

Hot tears of rage filled her steel blue eyes. "I'm not like other women, Charlie," her voice broke as she spoke his name. She turned quickly and ran for the barn before the tears spilled. She did not want Charlie to see them and use them as a sign of weakness.   
  
Charlie was speechless as he stared at her retreating back. Sarah came up to him and placed her arm around his waist. He hugged her tight to him as he looked down into his wife's gentle eyes.

"That girl's soul is a lot older than you or me. Take a good long look at the pain in her eyes and you'll see what I'm talking about," Sarah said as Charlie looked down on her in confusion.

"Besides, with all the boys gone off to war, she might be all we have. Maybe she's the miracle we've been praying for to save our land. You can't fly the contracts and keep up with this field yourself, Charlie," she smiled at him.

"Maybe you should accept a little help once in a while."

Charlie nodded and hugged his wife.   
  
"Let me go talk to her," Charlie said, squeezing his wife one final time before he strode across the barren field.

He found her in the hangar, sitting on the wing of his son's Curtiss-Jenny. If she crashed it, he loathed thinking of the hell he would have to pay when Doug found out. He watched as she wrestled with something deep inside of herself. Her face was like a mirror to her very soul, every thought showed plainly across her aristocratic features. She looked so young, so small, sitting there chewing on her bottom lip.

He sighed and walked over to her. She glanced up at him, her eyes now veiled. "You'll learn to fly the hard way, Rose." He said as he ran a hand through his hair. "You'll learn to fly from the ground up. If the war ends and my boys come home, that's it. We stop the lessons. Agreed?"   
  
Instead of the emotional outpouring he expected, she looked up at him solemnly. "All I want is a chance to prove myself."   
  
Charlie nodded and Rose slowly smiled, like the sun bursting through the clouds. "Agreed."

She shook his hand and embarked down the road to one of her greatest adventures.


	6. Promises to Keep

The hot, dry spring gave way to a hot sweltering summer after a violent storm and a tornado which ripped through the surrounding farm land but left the surrogate family shaken and safe in the dusty root cellar behind the house. The homestead suffered no damage from the awe-inspiring swirling winds, but nature's fury unleashed reminded Rose just how easily homes and lives could be taken away. One moment she was watching the clouds move slowly across the darkening sky and the next moment she was swept aside as chaos rained down on the farm from above. The black rolling clouds were beautiful in their terror, the greys and blacks combining with increasing fury as the three of them rushed around the field, battening down the hatches. The fury of the wind reminded her of a book read in her childhood, with Dorothy swept away to a magical land where she encountered the Scarecrow, the Tin-Man and the Cowardly Lion.

But once the storm blew over and they came back out into the sunlight, life moved on.

The time passed quickly and uneventfully as Charlie instructed her on the engine of the Jenny. She learned he was speaking literally when he said she was going to know the aircraft from the ground up. He was a patient teacher, never becoming frustrated by her endless questions.

By the beginning of July 1917 she was able to take the engine apart, clean it, and put it back together flawlessly. She was fluent in the hand signals needed to flag incoming planes onto the runway and could refuel them in record time.

Infrequent pilots who landed at their airstrip were quite amused to see her out on the runway, her flowing hair as red as the flags in her hands. Rose was aware she was causing a stir among the male dominated aviation community when they learned Charlie was teaching her to fly, but she did not care. Some had proclaimed outrage, but Rose would just shrug her shoulders and smile sweetly, indifferent. A majority of pilots in the world thought Harriet Quimby's 1911 flight across the English Channel nothing more than fluke. Rose would shake her head, already realizing that only more and more women would take to the air.  
  
But, she herself had yet to fly.  
  
Rose never harassed Charlie to take her into the air with him, she knew he would be true to his word and allow her to fly when he felt she was ready. But by the end of July, her patience was beginning to wane. So when they began her lessons in the plane while it was on the ground, she wanted to burst with happiness. She had to pretend to use the stick and the foot controls as Charlie carefully quizzed her on the proper procedures of flight. Rose spent almost every waking moment out in the hanger, continually wiping the plane down, or tuning the engine. She started to laugh in mid-swipe one hot sunny August day as Charlie remarked she was going to rub all the paint off of it if she kept it up at her continued pace. She knew although he liked to make gruff remarks, he was pleased she making such an effort to keep the plane in good condition.  
  
Rose would pass the days Charlie was flying perched on a rock outside of the hangar, her sketchbook resting on her denim covered knees, drawing the bi-plane in mid-flight.

Occasionally, she would find her mind drifting and she would look down to see her hand subconsciously drawing pictures of Jack from memory. But she could never seem to draw his lines correctly, or catch the essence of his soul that caused his eyes to sparkle mischievously. These pictures she would fold with a heavy heart and place in her satchel, or tear into little pieces to let the wind carry away.  
  
The Adlers never mentioned the eventuality of Rose's departure.

The three of them settled into a comfortable routine around the airfield and Sarah was beginning to dread the day when Rose packed her bags to continue on her journey. She had grown accustomed to seeing her in the morning, leaning against the counter sipping her coffee; her long legs covered by a pair of old dungaree overalls that once belonged to Robert. She enjoyed their quiet conversations at night while they sat in the parlor sipping cold tea or lemonade, listening to the crickets singing.

It dismayed Sarah she had known Rose for almost three months but had yet to learn concrete information of her past. Rose continued to pay them for her board, but the money always found its way back into her room. To compensate for her staying, she took on extra chores to help around the house and the airfield.  
  
Her car, with four working tires, sat covered alongside the Jenny in the hangar. Henry Toggle delivered a new tire as he promised, six weeks to the day after she arrived in Collier's Grove. She came out of the hangar, after hearing his jalopy pull up, dirty with grease from head to toe and wiping her hands on a rag. She had hoped it would deter Henry from leering at her, but surprisingly it had an adverse effect.

He took her money and pocketed it, then promptly asked her out to dinner. Rose had a hard time keeping a straight face as she explained to him she was a recent widower and not ready to reenter the social scene. He thanked her kindly with one last long look at her breasts and then left without another word. She turned to see Charlie smiling as he watched them from the doorway.  
  
"By the time he reaches town and downs a few, he'll have himself convinced it was you who asked him for dinner and Henry that turned you down flat. I suppose it will be Henry's great achievement tonight at the bar."  
  
Rose looked at him in horror as she followed him back to the open engine of the Jenny. "I would hope they have enough sense not to believe him."  
  
Charlie looked down at her, openly laughing now. "Oh, they won't believe a word of it. But they have to allow Henry to save face in order to get the free rounds he pays for every Friday night."

In truth, Charlie was touched by the gentle way Rose had let the older, overweight man down. It could have been just as easy for her to laugh in his face. "Still want to punch him in that red, bulbous nose?" He asked genially.  
  
Rose's sense of humor took over as she laughed in answer. "If he stared at me for five more minutes..." She balled her fist and shook it at the air.  
  
"Hey, underneath all that crud on your face, maybe you're not such a bad person after all." Charlie quipped as Rose swiped at him with her dirty rag. He threw back his head and laughed with her as they went back to work on the engine.  
  
Letters were delivered regularly from the front in Europe, with both sons downplaying their roles in the war to their mother. These letters were humorous, telling tall tales about one another, or about the other men in their squadron.

In contrast, the letters addressed to Charlie were sobering, going into more detail about how dangerous the missions really were. Sometimes he would read them aloud to Rose while they were taking a break from the heat outside the hangar. She admired them for their bravery and tenacity, but didn't think it was fair for Sarah not to know the full truth. Charlie was very adamant this was how Doug and Rob wanted it. It seemed they preferred to shield Sarah from the awful and sometimes grotesque aspects of war.  
  
In time she felt she knew the brothers almost as well as she knew their parents. As Charlie could have predicted, Doug went through the roof when Sarah wrote to say Charlie was teaching Rose to fly in his plane. She shrugged it off because Charlie did not seem overly concerned about the ranting and raving.

"He's five thousand miles away. What can he do about it?" Charlie replied when she asked if they should stop the lessons. Charlie was afraid to admit he enjoyed the time he spent teaching Rose, it enabled him to keep his mind off the increasing dangers his sons were facing. They began to include her in their salutations, asking Sarah to say hello to her and Doug would warn her not crash his plane. He also realized he was powerless to keep her from flying. All he could do was good-naturally promise her a slow death if she harmed the Jenny.

Rose prayed for their safe return...but not until she was able to soar alone above the clouds.  
  
It was a lazy afternoon in mid-August that found Rose and Sarah sitting quietly on the front porch. They sat companionably in high-backed rockers, enjoying the warmth of the slight breeze. It was a pleasant change from the humid stillness they had been experiencing for the last few weeks. Charlie was in Chicago preparing a time trial for a new government mail contract and not expected to return until the morning.  
  
Rose was quietly reading from a book of poetry by Robert Frost she had found on a shelf in the parlor. She was intrigued by one poem in the tome, "The Road Not Taken," and found she was continually rereading it to herself. But she wasn't sure if it was the poem itself which was distracting her, or the news Charlie had shared before he left for the time trial.

Her heart sang with delight. Charlie had promised to take her in the air tomorrow, to see if she retained what he taught her on the ground. If she proved herself, he would pull some strings and have a friend fly from Chicago to test her for a pilot license. It was culmination of all the long hours spent in the hangar sweating over the Jenny. Sarah sat alongside her, reading the latest letter from Doug in Europe. She sighed and Rose looked over to see her carefully fold the letter and place it over her heart. Rose smiled to herself as she rocked in the chair gently, looking back down at her poem.  
  
"All is well?" She asked.  
  
Sarah smiled as she leaned back in her chair and laid the letter in her lap. "All is well," she repeated and sighed again. "They were recruited out of the observation unit and are now headed back to England for training on a new plane called a Nieuport. They should be there for a few months at least, after that...back to the front I presume."  
  
"And Owen?" Rose asked quietly. She was still uncomfortable with speaking his name.

He was a reminder of her behavior towards Cal the last week on Titanic. She felt faint twinges of shame when she thought of the way she had acted, wondering now if it could have turned out differently if she hadn't defied him by openly flaunting her relationship with Jack. She could never forgive him for the treatment she endured the night Titanic sank and probably never would. She also resented him for living, when so many better men died, including Jack. Would she have handled it differently if she could go back and do it all over again?

No, she thought. All she would do was try harder to save Jack from his watery grave.  
  
She was so young then, and emotionally vulnerable. What changed? She might be older, but she wasn't sure she was any wiser.  
  
"He's fine." Sarah's voice broke through her reverie. "Doug says he too should be leaving for England any day now. He hopes they will all be transferred back to the same unit." Sarah patted down a few loose hairs from her bun. "They're safe for now, all my boys. That's all that matters."  
  
Rose nodded and returned to reading her poem. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..."  
  
"Rose?"  
  
"Hmmm?" Rose answered not looking up from the page.  
  
"Might I ask a question of you?"  
  
Rose marked her page with her finger and looked up at Sarah, smiling. "Of course, Sarah."  
  
"Why do you want to fly?"  
  
Rose smile faded as she turned to look over at the setting sun. The sunsets over the plains in Illinois were truly the most spectacular she had ever seen. How long had it been since she had the opportunity to see such a sunset? Oh, yes, she thought to herself sadly, looking down at her hands, I remember.  
  
She was quiet for so long, Sarah believed the question would remain unanswered.  
  
"I suppose the easy answer is because Charlie is willing to teach me. But I understand that is not the answer you are looking for." Rose smiled quietly and looked at Sarah's gentle and understanding eyes.  
  
"Possibly to prove women truly are equal to men. But that is not the correct answer, either," Rose chuckled softly.

"When I'm working on that plane, or Charlie is showing me how to handle the controls, it's all I think about. When I go to sleep at night, I dream about flying. It chases the demons away."  
  
Sarah nodded, remembering the many nights she heard Rose quietly crying in her bedroom.  
  
"Because a long time ago, I promised somebody I would live. Live my life to the fullest. Make each day count."  
  
The last phrase was spoken so low that Sarah had trouble hearing her.  
  
Rose looked up at Sarah, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"To be honest with you, sometimes I do not know why I do what I do. I always seem to make decisions without thinking about the consequences until it is too late. But this ... flying, I feel it will be good for my soul. Possibly because I'm searching for absolution." She looked back to the horizon.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." Rose whispered, her voice so low and so ragged, it may as well have come from a stranger.  
  
"Oh Rosie, why should you be searching for absolution?" Sarah exclaimed.  
  
Rose chose to ignore her question her question for the moment. "My father used to call me his Rosie girl, when I was young." A glazed look of despair clouded her features. "When life was simpler."  
  
"Do you miss him much?" Sarah asked quietly.  
  
"I miss both my parents more than I care to admit." She rocked her chair and smoothed the cover of the book in her hands. The personal battle she fought deep inside whenever she thought of her parents raged in her clenched stomach. She rubbed it self-consciously, trying to cool the burning sensation that nagged when she thought of the past.  
  
"My father died of apoplexy when I was fifteen. I died to my mother when I was seventeen, five years ago."  
  
Sarah sat straighter in her chair. "Your life must have been very hard."  
  
Rose laughed, but it was a brittle, harsh sound. "Oh no, I was the only child of a Philadelphia society maven. I was spoiled and pampered, but denied only one thing."  
  
She looked at Sarah; her voice was shakier than she would have liked.

"My freedom. And I paid such a high price for it."

Rose stood up from the chair and leaned against the porch railing, the burning sensation intensifying.

"When my father died, my mother discovered we were nearly destitute. I can no longer blame her for feeling our ... her only solution was marrying me off to a wealthy man. It was all she knew. In the beginning of my relationship with," she paused, groping for words. "My fiancé, I was overwhelmed by his charm, his wealth, his place in society. He was to my mother, a Godsend. But my life was beginning to resemble a realm of Dante's Inferno. I slowly began to suspect to him, I would be nothing more than a possession. A pretty bauble to place on a shelf, a trophy to show off at society balls, someone to further his own agenda."  
  
Rose looked at Sarah, her kind, curious face. "He proposed to me on Christmas Eve, at a quiet dinner with his family. Oh, how I could feel the weight of my mother's stare as she silently challenged me to refuse. What was I to do?"

She started to pace across the porch, her voice bitter as she relived this painful memory. "I quietly accepted and he slipped a five carat diamond ring on my finger. Before I fully realized what I had done we were sailing on the Mauretainia bound for London, an engagement present from his parents. What a motley crew were we! Cal and I, my mother, two maids and his ex-Pinkerton valet." Her voice grew hoarse with frustration.  
  
Sarah felt helpless as she watched her pace in agitation.  
  
"When we arrived in England, I noticed the change in his demeanor towards me almost instantly. It was just as I feared. He began to choose my clothing, he would tell my maid how to fix my hair. He decided what I was to eat when we dined out, belittling me mercilessly for any slight transgression. He would stare at me coldly, as if appraising my attributes. My mother would just sit there, triumphant I was engaged to one of Pennsylvania's most eligible bachelors and the envy of her society friends. I tried to speak to her in Paris about how I was being treated, but she turned deaf ears and looked at me as if I was insane. I felt as if I was being smothered, suffering from fits where I felt as if I couldn't breathe.

"So, I began to rebel. I would no longer hold my tongue when he saw fit to scold me as if I was a child. I would disappear for hours in the afternoons with my maid when I should have been napping. I started spending exorbitant amounts in the Paris salons, the galleries, buying everything and anything that caught my eye. I would tell the shopkeepers to bill his account at our hotel and to deliver the goods to his rooms.

"We had been in Europe for four months and I felt as if my life were over. I began to imagine my life as if I were wrapped in chains, tied to a bedpost, like a forgotten and neglected pet.

"When he was confronted with the bills from my sprees, he paid them without a second glance. He assured me I was suffering from homesickness and again we were whisked to London to board an ocean liner home to America."  
  
Rose stopped pacing, as she looked at Sarah, her blue eyes intense. "The ship was Titanic."  
  
Sarah gasped, clasping her hands to her heart.  
  
Rose nodded and sat down resignedly on the porch step. "I met a man on the short voyage home, a third class passenger. A beautiful, wonderful man. He was so pure, so full of life. He saved my life, as I was ready to throw it all into the cold, unforgiving sea. He knew me, as if he could see into my soul, as it seemed no one else cared to. I sought out his friendship and he accepted me for who I am. With him I could be the person who desperately wanted to escape from inside. I felt all my armor falling down in a pile at my feet."

She chuckled at the memory of him insulting her when he asked her if she loved Cal.  
  
"I must have fallen in love with him the moment he pulled me back over the railing to safety. We had fun he and I, more fun than I think I was allowed in my entire life."  
  
Sarah sat down on the step beside her, placing her hand over Rose's.  
  
"My mother saw him a bug, a hick from steerage that needed to be squashed quickly and completely. She spoke to me quite harshly; reminding me of what our life ... her life would be if I did not marry Cal. And Cal, he ... he exploded. He was cold and exact when he told me I was his wife, in practice if not yet in law." She shuddered involuntarily recalling the morning after she danced the night away in the third class common room. She placed her forehead in her hand and looked at Sarah sideways. There could be no hesitation now, once she began it flooded out in a rush.  
  
"I almost gave him up. He sought me out and I sent him away. Told him it wasn't up to him to save my soul. Once again he spoke truthfully, said only I could do that. He understood that I felt as if I were a trapped animal and told me that I was going to die if I didn't break free. I ... I couldn't handle the truth and I ran. I ran back to my world of privilege and prestige all the while hiding behind a worthless name. That afternoon I sat at tea with my mother as she regaled her group with all the headaches planning the wedding was causing her.  
  
"That's when I realized he was right. I realized this life that was being planned for me down to the minute details was not worth saving. If I married Cal he would only grow to dominate me so completely that I would never grow, slowly withering away to an empty shell. I would become a shadow of the person I was. I decided it was time for me to break away from this prison they were locking me into and live my life the way I wanted it to be.  
  
"I begged off, leading them to believe I was suffering from a painful headache and I told my mother to not expect me for dinner. I found him on the bow of the ship, deep in thought as he stared out over the ocean. I tried to explain, but he would not allow me to."  
  
Rose stood up and stepped off the porch. She threw her head back to the sky as she spread her arms as if to fly.

"I had my first experience with flying when he told me to close my eyes and step up on to the railing of the bow. I opened my eyes and the world disappeared. There was only the dying sun, the wind, the sea and his cheek soft against mine. Everything behind us did not matter, only the future, which I hoped we would spend together."

Rose touched her cheek with her palm and closed her eyes. "You jump, I jump, remember?" She hardly raised her voice above a whisper. She turned to Sarah, her eyes so full of life and unquenchable anguish.  
  
"That sunset was the last time Titanic saw the light of day. The unsinkable ship that was built for millionaires was now to be inherited by the inhabitants of the deep sea." Tears were slowly beginning to track down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently, again, the damn tears.  
  
"I lost him that night along with 1500 poor, helpless souls. One boat returned to search for survivors. One." Her voice broke with emotion. "Six people were recovered from the sea, including me. Six out of fifteen hundred. He gave up his life so that I could live." Rose looked at the red sky, so like that last sundown long ago.  
  
"You asked why am I searching for absolution?" Rose whispered.  
  
Sarah was haunted by the image of a dark, flat sea with the only sound cries of despair as a thousand people slowly froze to death. She shook her head hoping to clear the mournful cries of her imagination. How could one person carry all that grief alone for so long? This was not what she expected. She was imagining Rose was running from an abusive husband, or an overbearing father, not running from a horror such as this. She too was brushing tears from her face as she reached for Rose's hand and grasped it tightly.  
  
"I can feel him sometimes. I hear my name as a whisper on the wind, or his scent in the air when I least expect it. He saved me again as I thought it would be easier to let it all go. To sleep dreamlessly forever. I did not think I could go on without him. I felt as if I had waited my entire life for him, only to have him cruelly ripped away when I needed him the most. But again he intervened. He held me close and made me promise to live. It was a dream, it had to be a dream, I thought when I awoke. A very real, very strange dream.

"But it meant so much more than that. It meant he was near me always, watching, protecting me. I told him once again I would never let go," she sat back down on the step and wrapped her arms around her knees.  
  
"And never is a promise, right?" Rose ran a trembling hand through her hair to help calm her erratic heart.  
  
"Instead of waking up missing him more, I awoke with renewed vigor. I had promises to keep. A life to be lived," she clenched her jaw to kill the sob in her throat.

"When does it end, this hurt, this guilt? I fooled myself for so long when I was in New Orleans playing the wild girl, dressing in men's clothing so I could steal into all the scandalous places in the red light district. I fooled myself into thinking it was over. My best performances were not on the stage; they were of the girl I pretended to be in real life. But ... but it's not over. I still miss him so much."  
  
They sat in silence, while the sun set and darkness stole over the farm. All around them the sounds of the night came alive. The farm took on a surreal appearance that night, in the dark, while Rose confessed her past to Sarah.

She didn't realize it then, but it was a turning point in her life. It would be crucial first step of forgiveness she managed to avoid all the while in New Orleans. She was surprised to find herself wanting and needing Sarah's advice.

Sarah sat in silence for a moment, going over in her mind all Rose had confessed.  
  
"The hurt will never truly fade, Rose. It will become a dull ache, diminishing in time, and one day you may find your heart is ready to love again. You've been carrying this albatross alone for so long," Sarah stopped, looking off towards the hangar in the darkness to gather her thoughts.  
  
"There is a world's weight of guilt resting on your small shoulders and your heart is as deep as the ocean. It can and will take the pain and survive. You have a very old, very strong soul. The guilt and the pain will eventually find a corner in your heart and you will close the door. Every time you visit these memories you'll find your heart is healing a little more. Especially if you can concentrate on the love you shared with this man. I'm sure he would not expect you to pine for him forever. If he truly loved you, as it seems clear he did, he would want you to be happy. You will endure, finding courage where you never imagined it would be. Life moves forward," she faltered, unsure she what she was saying was correct.

"If flying is helping you move on, if it helps you heal your wounded heart, so be it. Become the first person to circle the globe in your aeroplane and be the envy of every aviator in the world."  
  
Rose chuckled as she dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Was that how you survived the death of your husband?"  
  
They sat in full darkness now, their shadows dark and long behind them from the rising moon. It made it easier to speak; not having to look at one another in the gloom.

Sarah surprised herself by speaking truthfully of her first marriage. "My situation was different, he was an abusive man and I had two little boys to care for. I wasn't in love with him, in truth; I barely liked the man. It was an arranged marriage between our families, to bind our farm land together."

"He died when Robbie was barely out of his nappies; Doug must have been going on five. He was such a mature child, looking at me with those big brown eyes when I told him that his father wouldn't be coming home anymore. His eyes welled up with tears, which I mistook for grief, but when he said he was crying because he was happy I would never be struck again, my heart broke, not because of the death of the worthless man I married, but because his own son could not grieve for him properly. I promised him that night I would never be abused again and I was determined to build a new life for the three of us. A life built on love, not pain."  
  
It was Sarah's turn to falter in her confession. "When I met Charlie three years later, it was like a dream come true. We moved to Chicago to stay with my sister and I met him on the train ride to the city. He was headed to Chicago on business, but he soon found excuses to stay. I can not tell you if it was love at first sight on his part, but it was for me. For the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to have butterflies in my stomach when I looked him. My life with Charlie was everything I had hoped my first marriage would be. He unconditionally loves my sons and I. What more could I ever hope for in a man? I've never spoken of my life before him and he loves me enough for me not to ask."  
  
It was growing late, the moon and the stars shone down on the two women.  
  
"I too had promises to keep, Rose, promises which I've kept. So shall you." They stood up from the steps to return in the house.

"So shall you, you'll see."


	7. Learning to Fly

The weather took a turn for the worse that evening, with rain soaking the farm after midnight. Rose awoke to the sound of raindrops drumming on the metal roof of the house. She rolled over in the bed, her hair fanning out over her arms. Through the open window she watched the water as it cascaded to the ground. Would it stop in time for her to fly this afternoon? She wondered, as the staccato beat lulled her back to a dreamless sleep.  
  
The sound of the rain playing a crescendo on the roof awoke her sometime after dawn. Rose stood arms over head and stretched, feeling the muscles in her legs and calves relaxing from the pull. The gloom and rhythm of the rain had bestowed a rare and much-needed gift, a night of rest devoid of dreams. She leaned out the window inhaling the sharp morning scent of grass and moisture. In the distance she could see sunlight filtering through the bruised, shredded clouds.  
  
Not long now Jack, today I will fly.  
  
After dressing, Rose crept down the stairs and surprisingly found the kitchen empty. A glance at the mantle clock in the parlor told her it was not as early as she imagined. Sarah, it seemed, also decided to take advantage of the weather to sleep in. She smiled to herself as she made a cup of coffee before heading out onto the porch. Life is what you make of it, she thought as she sipped her hot drink and nibbled on a biscuit left over from dinner last evening. Today she would learn how adventurous Rose Dawson was.  
  
Or how foolish.  
  
The cool mist fighting with the rising humidity of August curled the loose tendrils of hair from her braid. The cloud-filtered light was still dismal, casting a grayish pallor across the airfield. She sat in the wicker rocker which had become her confessional and thought over her actions last evening. Rose never imagined Sarah would become her confessor.

It felt good to tell Sarah about Jack. Having someone else know what an extraordinary person he was made it seem all the more tangible that he ever existed at all. She had her moments when she was not able to get a clear picture in her mind of his smile, or his blue eyes. But last night, in the telling Sarah, she was once again able to see him clearly.  
  
Starlings converged on the lawn to take partake of worms brought out by the warm rain and wet ground. It was a wonderful feeding ground for the small chittering birds. Rose stood slowly as not to startle them, tearing small pieces of her biscuit to feed to them. They chirped happily as they massed on one small crumb before taking off in unison for the sky. She leaned over the railing, watching them in flight silently, the large black mass turning as one before taking to the gray clouds.  
  
For months now, flying was the most important goal Rose had set. She was surprised to find nervousness frolicking with her stomach. Rose pulled on her ear in a gesture of self-doubt. What if she wasn't good enough? What if she crashed the plane? What if she flew up into the sky only to be sick? She sighed deeply. What if she let Charlie down? More importantly, what if she let herself down?

So many unanswered questions. Why now was she having all these second thoughts? Why today, of all days? There were no easy answers to these questions of self-doubt. She began to worry her cuticle, grimacing slightly at the taste of a forgotten swatch of grease under her nail. Uncertainity of if what she was doing was right filled her mind.  
  
She looked over towards the hangar, straightening as she noticed Charlie's truck parked in front. He had not been expected to return until mid- morning. She opened the screen door, grabbed a barn coat and took off at a crisp jog, holding the coat over her head to shield her from the rain. It was difficult trying to pull open the door and keep the jacket above her head. She was soaked and shivering by the time she entered the hangar. The sound of the downpour echoed loudly throughout the metal structure. This was the first time she did not feel comforted by the sight of the plane. She sighed as she ran her hand over the gleaming underbelly. The rain grew to a roar as it pounded on the steel roof. She made her way silently to the back office.  
  
"Charlie," she said as she knocked on the doorframe.  
  
Charles Adler raised his head from the logbook. "Hey kiddo, come on in and sit," he waved her towards a wooden chair that sat across from his desk. The walls of the small office were covered with flight maps from the region. On a bookshelf to the right flight logs lined up neatly in a row.  
  
"Some weather were having, huh?" He asked as he looked back down at the book. "Looks like you caught the brunt of it out there."  
  
Rose sat on her hands on the chair, to keep from biting her nails. "It should clear by noon," she said as Charlie closed the book with a thump.  
  
"I guess those half-assed meteorology lessons I gave you came in handy," he rolled his chair over to the shelf and filed the book with the others. "Sarah still asleep?"  
  
Rose nodded absently. "We weren't expecting you until later this morning."  
  
Charlie smiled. "I couldn't sleep. So as soon as it was light enough I drove home. So are you ready to fly today?" He said turning his full attention to her.  
  
"I'm ready," she said, her voice quivering as apprehension rippled through her.  
  
"You're nervous." It was not a question, more of a statement.  
  
Rose nodded.  
  
Charlie smiled at her gently. "I would have been uneasy if you weren't nervous. The nervousness is natural. It should pass once we are in the air."  
  
"If it doesn't?"  
  
"Rose, you'll do fine. What happened to the girl four months ago who demanded to be taught to fly?"  
  
Rose chuckled softly as she looked at the ceiling.  
  
"The first time I flew, I spent the morning in the privy puking my guts out." Charlie laughed as Rose's nose curled up in disgust. "Robbie was the same way. Only Doug had a stomach of steel. But then he was always the best flyer of the bunch. It's natural to be frightened. You're gonna be thousands of feet in the air with no safety net."  
  
"That visual picture is not helping me relax, Charlie."  
  
Charlie held his hand up. "But I'll be with you. Sitting right behind you. I would not have told you it was time to fly if I didn't believe in your ability to get the job done. This is what you worked for remember? This is the chance you asked for to prove yourself. I'm not trying to pressure you. If you don't think you're ready, then you're not ready. It's not a big deal. We can do it again another day."  
  
Rose shook her head vehemently. "No. I can do this. I've conquered bigger obstacles than this and survived. This is small potatoes compared to what I've been through."  
  
"I don't doubt that to be true, Rose. But only you will know when the time is right to fly. All I am saying is if you don't want to go into the air today, so be it. I won't hold it against you."  
  
"May I ask you a question?"  
  
"Shoot." Charlie leaned forward as he folded his hands on the desk. He was taken aback by the sudden intensity in Rose's cerulean blue eyes.  
  
"Do you honestly think I am ready?"  
  
Charlie sighed as he leaned back in his chair. He looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments. "Do I think you're ready? Does it really matter what I think?" At her nod he continued. "Rose Dawson, you were born ready for anything life throws your way. But I also think if you do not get in that plane today," he pointed at the ceiling, "and fly the opportunity will be gone. There will be no second chances. I don't know who you have to prove yourself to."

He put up his hand for silence when Rose opened her mouth to protest. "Not to me. You proved yourself the moment you decided to get your manicured hands dirty."  
  
Rose bent her head and studied her hands. The fingers were callused; the nails chipped and eternally dirty from the long hours working on the Jenny. "But there is something deep inside that is driving you to succeed. If you do not get in that plane today, you will unequivocally let that part of yourself down. Enough, I think, to never get in a plane again. So yes, to finally answer your question, I do think you are ready to fly."  
  
She looked at him full in the face for a moment, almost gauging to see if he spoke the truth. A faintly eager look flashed in her eyes as she stood, straightening her shoulders and cleared her throat. "Okay. Let's do it."  
  
They spent the rest of the morning plotting their pattern of flight. Charlie started a log to record all the hours she spent in the air. An aura of excitement began to encircle them as they poured over the terrain maps. Rose listened enraptured as she memorized Charlie's directions. Once in the air they would not be able to hear one another over the wind and the engine. He showed her the hand signals they would be using to communicate; patiently watching Rose until she had them committed to memory. The sign they were waiting for came when the rain stopped beating against the steel roof.  
  
They walked out of the office silently. Forgotten was the frustration and self-doubt musings of the morning. Rose stopped and inhaled the scent of castor oil that was one of the familiar characteristics of the Jenny. She rubbed the plane for luck, hearing in her mind the same litany over and over. "... Come Josephine in my flying machine and its up she goes ...up she goes ..." Charlie opened the large door, shielding his eyes as they were assaulted with the bright sunlight.  
  
She raised her hand to her brow, blocking the light.

Will I see you in the clouds, Jack? Will you be near me as I soar like a bird in the sky? Will you feel me, as close to Heaven as I can be? I will be searching for you among the clouds.  
  
A slight breeze ruffled her curls, blowing from the east and breaking her reverie. She caught the scent of conte crayon and smiled. She raised her face to the warm sun. "I love you, Jack," she whispered.  
  
Together, Rose and Charlie pulled the plane onto the tarmac. The change in the weather was almost uncanny. The heavens were clear blue, without a trace of the clouds that covered the sky in the morning. Everything around the airfield shone like a polished penny. She could still hear drips of rain trickling down the side of the hangar. She breathed in the smell of clean, fresh air one more time before running back to the house to change into her flying clothes.  
  
"Good morning, Sarah," she said breathlessly as she ran through the kitchen and up the stairs to her room. A soft gasp escaped her lips as she saw the new clothes lain out on the bed. A new pair of black trousers and calf high kid leather boots. A brown leather bomber jacket and a white silk scarf completed the ensemble. She sighed, closing her eyes as she picked up the scarf and rubbed its softness against her cheek.  
  
"A good pilot must be prepared for every situation that arises. But they must also look the part. We could not have you flying in a pair of hand-me-down dungarees. I decided if you were going to be a pilot, you needed to look like one too." Sarah swept into the room, smiling as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.  
  
"Oh Sarah, you shouldn't have," Rose said, overwhelmed by her generosity.  
  
"Of course I should have. I did the same thing for my boys before they took to the air."  
  
"But ..." Rose faltered, unable to bring the words to her lips to say she was not a family member.  
  
"You are to me like a daughter, Rose Dawson. As much a part of my family as a person can be. Besides, it is my money and I shall bestow gifts on whomever I choose. Today I chose you."  
  
Rose's eyes filled with a different type of tears. "Thank you. Thank you so much for everything," she said as she hugged Sarah.  
  
Sarah patted her back and pulled away. "You go on up in the air, honey and show me just how good you are."  
  
Rose nodded, not trusting her voice to speak. Sarah left as silently as she arrived as Rose continued to finger the scarf. How could complete strangers treat her with more respect than her own flesh and blood? Rose wondered as she silently undressed.

The trousers clung to her like a second skin. Sarah had chosen the correct sizes for everything. Sarah must have checked Rose's clothes for her measurements. She pulled the boots up over her trousers amazed at how comfortable they were. She tucked in her shirt as she walked down the stairs. She only stopped long enough to primp for Sarah. They were both laughing as they walked together to the hangar.  
  
The pre-flight check required her full attention. It felt odd, knowing that if anything went wrong, she would have no one to blame but herself. She shook her head to clear it of these obtuse thoughts. Rose walked around the plane silently checking the wires and the ailerons. The Jenny was gassed, the engine tuned. She had completed the scut work the day before while Charlie was in Chicago. The Jenny was ready to fly.  
  
Rose zipped up her jacket as Charlie came out of the hangar throwing the keys to the plane in the air. He stopped for a second to take in her appearance, giving her a wide smile of approval. She pulled her flight cap over her braid just before Charlie opened the door to the small open-air cockpit.  
  
"Here, let me," Sarah said as she took the scarf from Rose's hands. Sarah tied it loosely around Rose's neck, leaving the two long pieces to trail down her back. Rose threw one long end over her shoulder theatrically as she pulled on her leather gloves, earning another wide smile from Sarah. Charlie offered his hand to help her into the front seat. She sat down, marveling that this was actually going to happen. It was almost surreal, like a dream.  
  
"This is how we are going to do it. I'll do the take off; we'll ascend about five thousand feet and I will knock on the plane to signal that you are a go for taking over the controls."  
  
Rose nodded as she tightened her safety belt. "Here we go," she mumbled as she pulled her goggles down over her eyes. She felt the plane tilt as Charlie maneuvered himself in the back seat. She waved to Sarah as Charlie started the engine.

Feeling the engine rumble throughout the plane after working on it for so long was a visceral experience. When she closed her eyes she could see the workings of the engine clearly as they labored to bring the plane to flight. Charlie taxied the plane onto the runway, speeding up as they traveled down the concrete tarmac. There were no shadows across her heart as Charlie opened up the throttle. She cast a long glance at the familiar field as she felt the tail of the plane go up. The wheels began to skim the ground and then quite suddenly, they were airborne.  
  
Rose could feel the wind in her teeth, realizing much to her chagrin she was smiling. She let out a whoop of exhilaration as a gust of air rushed by. How was it possible that flying opened a door to her soul that she never knew existed? The memories of another type of flying filled her mind. They were so high in the sky. It was as if she could see clear to Kansas. The plains stretched endlessly, the horizon millions of miles away.  
  
Before she realized it Charlie was knocking on the plane, indicating the time had come for her to take the controls. She looked over the side of the plane as she took the stick in her hands. The ground looked alien to her, trees that were forty feet high were diminished to the size of a child's toy. Acres of green fields were reduced to tiny square pockets with beige lines separating their space. She felt an incredible sense of calm, almost as she and the Jenny had become one entity.

She banked to the left, feeling the Jenny respond almost instantly. There was no nervousness, every doubt that she felt hours before vanished the moment the tires left the ground. Everything Charlie taught her came to fruition with surprising clarity.  
  
"Jack, Oh Jack! I'm flying, I'm really flying!" She shouted over the wind and the engine noise.

The propeller in the front of the plane spun at such high velocity. She laughed as she banked the plane to the right. She handled the controls with the ease of an experienced flier. Rose chose to do some S turns, then flew in tight lazy eight's. Charlie was very impressed with her easy style, surprised at how well she seemed to fly on sheer instinct. Her movements with the stick caused the place to fly gracefully, more gracefully then he himself had ever flown. She dipped the wings, dropping their altitude, then pulled the stick back to raise the plane towards the sun.

"... Up, up a little bit higher ... Come Josephine in my flying machine ..." The words to the song flew out of her mouth only to be swallowed by the wind.  
  
"Oh Jack, how I wish you were here," she silently whispered. It was the first time in forever her voice did not choke on his name. She placed her hand on her heart, where she had placed his memory many years before.  
  
After what seemed like minutes, Charlie was knocking on the plane. He pointed to his watch and then to the ground. Through hand signals he indicated she should try to land the plane. She nodded as she decreased her pressure on the throttle. She watched her controls diligently, making sure to keep one eye on the rapidly approaching ground. Once she was ready to land, she killed the engine, feeling the wheels skip on the ground. She pushed forward on the stick while placing increasing pressure on the foot brake. The plane glided to a stop right outside of the hangar.  
  
Rose jumped out of the cockpit with her arms extended over her head, whooping with joy.

Sarah came running over to the plane from her perch on the front porch. "I did it!" Rose exclaimed. "Oh my God! That was the most amazing experience of my life! I have never felt that free!"  
  
Charlie climbed down from his seat. He too was smiling broadly. "I told you Rose. You were ready for anything."

Rose raised her goggles on top of her cap and grabbed Charlie's hands. They danced around in a circle like excited children playing ring a round the rosie.  
  
Sarah joined the fray, the three of them laughing and hugging. When they began to settle down Sarah picked up a large black box she had placed on the ground before the dance began.  
  
"Okay Rose, we have to record this moment for prosperity. Let me take your picture."  
  
Rose smiled ecstatically as Sarah motioned her back over to the plane.

"There you go ... wait a minute, put your leg up on the wheel. Okay. Perfect."

Rose complied, also placing her hand on the cockpit. Sarah unfolded the camera legs and leaned in towards the lens. Two pictures were taken, one for Rose, and one for her wall in the parlor.

Now, no matter where the road took Rose, she would always remember the Adlers and the day she learned to fly.  
  
When she was up in the air she had nothing to fear. She felt no pain, no loneliness. For the first time in years, Rose Dawson was at peace.


	8. Letters from the Front

Dear Mother,  
  
Often I've wondered if you could form a true conception of the surroundings of our daily life. I imagine the word "Aerodrome" must convey an uncertain picture of where your sons have been spending their time. It is true that this is where our aeroplanes are landed and kept for, but this is our starting point, where we are patiently awaited at the end of our missions. In truth, it has become our home.  
  
If you could picture in your mind a smooth green grass covered field, situated by a two-lane highway with a small village off in the distance. The ground is level, square and the sides of our field are a half mile in length. Four squadrons occupy space here, which means that we house eighty to one hundred planes and as many pilots. Close to the highway are two hangars that comfortably hold ten or twelve small machines, such the type that we recently trained to fly. The mechanics are housed here, where they care for the planes they "belong" to. I myself have three mechanics that care for my machine; seldom does any defect escape their meticulous attention.  
  
Around the edges of the field are ten more hangars, each facing inwards. Not far from these large structures are where the sleeping quarters for the officers are located. The mess hall sits a short distance away, as each squadron holds twenty or so men; the mess is often integrated. The enlisted men, the mechanics, truck drivers, workmen and servants occupy quarters of their own behind the hangars. The astounding number of men that call this place home at any one time number close to one thousand!  
  
An experience flyer can spot the aerodromes from the air miles away. The rough arrangement of the planes and hangars gives it away. It is for this reason we try and camouflage the hangars from the sky. Unfortunately, no field can be in use for long before the enemy discovers it.  
  
We returned from England two weeks ago and so far every day it has rained. Each night we wonder if tomorrow will be the day to fly our first mission. I have faith in our ability to fly, but our planes are not the best or fully equipped. It is very disconcerting to imagine flying above enemy territory when our machine guns have not yet arrived!  
  
It is late Mother, so I shall take my leave. Please give my love to Charlie and say hello to Rose. Convey to her, if you will, how happy I was to hear she flew without wrecking my machine. Rob, as he is known here, also sends his love. He is of course one of the most popular men in the Aerodrome with his kind smiles and practical jokes. Jason has asked to say hello and if you could possibly send word to his parents he is warm and safe. Perhaps on the morrow we shall fly our aeroplanes for first time as Captains of the American Air Service.  
  
Please keep us in your prayers,  
  
Your loving son, Doug

----  
  
18 December 1917  
  
Dear Charlie,  
  
I have been grounded (if only we had the opportunity to fly!) on the basis of a cold. It is miserable here, for if the sky is not spewing snow, it is sending rain down in its place. Half the men in the squadron are in the same quandary as I. But of course Rob is as healthy as a horse. He seems almost gleeful to see me in this awful predicament of a stuffy nose and cough. But as you are only too aware, that is the Rob we know and love. If the sky is free of snow and rain, then clouds invade our field, leaving us stumbling around in the fog. Fortunately, if we are unable to fly, neither can the enemy.  
  
We lost a member of our squadron a few days ago when the commanding officer deemed the weather clear enough to send a small platoon into the air for maneuvers. His name was Jimmy Bryant and he was only nineteen years old. I can still see his fiery red hair and freckles as he told jokes over breakfast. He was the first casualty of our group, naturally every one was as stricken as I. Sometimes in this lonely place we begin to feel invincible. It is of course the wrong emotion to feel. When pilots let down their guard they make mistakes. I wish I could say that was the way of it for Jimmy, but no one is sure what went wrong. One moment he was flying maneuvers alongside of his companions, the next moment he was gone. Later that evening word was received that confirmed our worst suspicions. His plane was spotted behind the small town of Villeneuve, the bulk of it still smoking from the explosion.  
  
To make matters worse, Christmas is days away and no one wants to be in this God forsaken place. All of us, regardless of our religious upbringing, wish they were home with our families. I must say that tensions were already a bit high before the loss of Jimmy. Now they are almost unbearable. With the weather so severe the men are unable to blow off steam by fighting the Huns. I must admit there have been quite a few fights among the men. Rob was involved in one such altercation, but after they were soaked with frigid water, they stood up shaking hands. If there is one thing Major Lufberry will not tolerate it is dissension among his squadrons.  
  
Some mornings, I awake before dawn so sure that I am lying in my bed at home I can almost smell the bacon sizzling in the griddle downstairs. When the other men begin to stir, I suddenly realize where I am. It is a shocking juxtaposition, one that I hope will not happen often. For the rest of the day I am always fighting waves of homesickness so painful, I am useless for flying.  
  
On a different note, your last letter cheered us some bit. How exciting for Rose to earn her pilots license in such a short time. Only the fourth woman to do so in the United States since 1911! You must inform her how proud I am she is helping us retain the business in our time of need. Rose Dawson sounds like a Godsend. I am sorry for the selfish and unkind words I used in the beginning about her character. I suppose if one were to rationalize it I was jealous of her flying my plane over the friendly skies of home. I have come to realize she is helping you and Mother by keeping your minds off this horrid war. For that, to Rose, I am eternally grateful. I must  
make the confession of Owen informing us Rose Dawson is quite beautiful. Did that help sway my opinion of her? No, although I must admit I am quite intrigued. Her actions these last few months from Mother's letters have spoken of her character more than any one person alone could. I have thought from time to time of writing her to say thank you, but I feel that may be too forward. So through you, Charlie I send my thanks.

If only this war could end tomorrow! I cringe inwardly when I hear of a familiar name from home on the casualty lists. So many good men have already been lost. How many more are sure to follow?  
  
Please excuse my melancholy, Charlie. I can only blame it on my health, the weather and the holiday. Send Mother my love. I shall so look forward to seeing you both again.  
  
Your loving son, Doug

-------

6 March 1918  
  
Dear Charlie,  
  
How can I withhold my excitement as I write this letter? It will come as no surprise that I have yet to fly a mission alone, as I have spoken of the horrible winter we have been experiencing which has kept us grounded. Boredom has reigned throughout our aerodrome for the last few months as the snow and rain continued to fall. But we are safe, we are dry and we are well fed; though I say a prayer every day for my brothers in arms who are not.  
  
Today when we awoke the day was clear and mild. Everybody was anxious that maybe; finally the weather had broken at last. To many of us, it seemed that spring was right around the corner. A false sense of security, I mused to no one in particular as the Major joined us for breakfast.  
  
Everyone was quite surprised when Major Lufberry decided to lead a patrol to look at the war across the German lines. Sitting at the table at breakfast I could see the same look cross every pilot's face. 'Would he call on me?' Luf, as we affectionately call him, is very quiet in his manner and very amusing when he wants to be. This was his fourth year in the French Air Service. He shot down seventeen Hun aeroplanes before the American Air Service became active on the front. When he called my name, I tried to appear nonchalant, but Rob jabbed me playfully in the ribs, causing me to jump. Luf pretended not to notice, as he ordered me to be ready by eight fifteen.  
  
Precisely at eight o'clock I approached my mechanics. They informed me my Nieuport was in tip-top condition. I asked them to run it out onto the field and warm up her engine as Major Lufberry has a reputation for punctuality. My partners in the air, Rickenbacker and Campbell were already in their flight clothes. I changed and then lit up a cigarette, so as not to appear too anxious. Robbie and Jason came over, trying to look as if they were not half-jealous of my chance to fly with Lufberry. They slapped my back as they wished me well, at the same time asking what they should do with my personal effects should I not return.  
  
When Major Lufberry entered the hangar, we were ready. Campbell had already climbed in his plane and I soon followed, climbing into the cockpit of my single seater. Luf spoke to him quietly before coming over to me. All he said was to stick close to him and to stay in formation.  
  
Lufberry ran his motor for a moment, and then his wheels left the ground. Campbell followed then Rickenbacker. I brought up the rear. They were in such a hurry to reach their destination, I was sure I would never catch up.  
  
The sky was a beautiful clear blue as the ruins of Rheims spread beneath my wings. But I had no time to dawdle, or sightsee. I was far behind our formation, as I my plane was not as fast as my companions' were. Lufberry must have sensed my trouble as he turned in a tight circle to toke up position not one hundred yards from my wing. It helped keep my mind off the fact the earth was some 15,000 feet below me as I tried to follow Lufberry's example.  
  
After almost a half an hour at this dizzy altitude, I managed to take a look over the side of my machine. We had almost reached the Argonne Woods. The trenches in this part of the country are quite old and unused. It was a battered, barren landscape. Not a tree, no fence or any type of vegetation shared the earth with the trench works and the millions of shell holes in the ground. I felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness as I looked over the appalling vista.  
  
Suddenly there was an explosion that seemed to rock the rear of my plane. I was horribly startled and at the same time the shock wave struck my plane and I was tossed about more viciously than I ever imagined possible. Within a few seconds more explosions rocked my machine, with me helpless in its center. How terrifying to learn I was being fired upon by eighteen pounds of shrapnel artillery by the Germans! The memories of the tales of the most accurate battery the allied aviators faced filled my mind. We were only a mile outside of Suippe. I looked down and found the battery quite easily. How frightening to realize they could see me so much more clearly than I could see them!  
  
At any moment I was sure my small plane would be struck by one of those shells. How relieved can I tell you I was to have Major Lufberry near me? I was sure that Rickenbacker and Campbell felt the same way. Every maneuver he made seemed to be a word of encouragement to us inexperienced flyers. I eventually became accustomed to the puffs of black smoke around my machine. I met each explosion with gentle pressure on my stick, righting my plane and smoothing its course.  
  
I realized once again 15,000 feet above the ground how much I loved to fly. The whole ugly aspect that I would eventually shoot down a man with the possibility of also being shot down was out of my mind for a few brief moments. The abohorrence of war and pitting myself against German aviators were lost to me, if only for a few moments.  
  
Here I was flying above enemy lines, contemplating my fate when I realized Lufberry was leading us home. I glanced at my clock on the dashboard, surprised to see that two hours had passed. Our fuel supplies must have been getting low. These planes are not like the Jenny at home. They fly fast and high and cannot carry a large load of gasoline and oil as every pound works against the speed and climbing power of the machine.  
  
Descending above our aerodrome, I could see this yet unbroken part of the landscape below my wings. We circled the field before shutting down our motors and landing smoothly in the soft dirt of the strip. We quickened the speed of the propellers until we were just outside of our hangar door. It seemed as if every pilot and mechanic stood there watching and waiting as we climbed down from our machines. I picked Rob and Jason out of the crowd almost immediately as they came forward to slap me on my back and shake my hand.  
  
My other companions were acting with bored indifference, telling stories of how they must have used up a year's worth of the Kaiser's riches on ammunition with our jaunt across the lines. We could not keep the surprise off of our faces as Major Lufberry informed us that a few formations of enemy planes passed in our vicinity. Not five hundred yards from where we flew! We were aghast as Major Lufberry enlightened us on the virtues of keeping our eyes open in the air! Our bored indifference disappeared on the spot. We realized later that the Major was only ragging on us out of a sense of duty, to make us aware learning to pay attention at all times to the skies below and above us was our first priority. I only wish you could have seen the look of horror on Rickenbacker's face as the Major began to poke his finger through holes shrapnel made in his aeroplane. I also was shaken as I discovered several holes in the tail of my machine. Rob and Jason were quick to point out how ashen my face became. They were quite sure I was going to lose my breakfast right there and then. I could not even find my voice to tell them I was not sure that was not going to happen either!  
  
Flying in observation planes to map trench lines is quite different from flying alone above the German lines. Today was the first day I began to doubt that combat was my cup of tea. Who was I to drag Rob and Jason into this mess the masses deem a world war? But then I suppose if we were not in the air fighting, we would be below, deep in the trenches. It is not quite the hand off I prefer to imagine. I would still prefer to be at home, elbows deep in the engine of my Jenny, flying harmless sacks of mail across the state lines. I suppose it is something to look forward to. The time I can return to the field and resume the normal life of a mail pilot.  
  
If you wish to read Rose my letter, I shall be honored. But if you would please leave out my musings of self-doubt I would be eternally grateful. I would rather be known as brave aviator than a human one. Maybe I shall woo her from across the world with my tales of bravery and adventures against the Huns. Please Charlie, stop laughing, you are wounding my lonely heart!  
  
If the weather holds as planned, Jason and Rob will embark on their first missions across the lines tomorrow. I am sure they will feel as overwhelmed as I was the first time I realized I was flying in combat. I only hope they remember what they learned and keep a clear and steady head.  
  
Robert sends his love as always, which as you know Rob, he always expects me to convey. Ah such the life of the older brother!  
  
Au Revoir, Mon ami, Doug

-------

19 May 1918  
  
Dear Mother and Charlie,  
  
I am sorry to be writing a joint letter, but I am not up to the task of double duty today. My mentor, Major Raoul Lufberry was shot down today, six miles from our field. I am sure that by the time this letter reaches you, you will have heard of the news, but I wanted ease your minds that the three of us are indeed safe.  
  
How can I relate to you the overwhelming feelings of surrealness as we jumped in our vehicles to find the wreckage not thirty minutes from where our aerodrome stood? Everyone has been walking around in a daze, as though Luf would be returning from a mission at any moment. Our brothers in the air had done their best to avenge the Hun who shot down our fallen brother, but unfortunately, he made his escape.  
  
Tomorrow we shall lay to rest our fallen comrade in our small cemetery. The plot already bears his name and half a dozen of our fellows lie side by side in the clay. So very far away from the homes and families they loved and loved them in return. Today I miss you both and the farm more than ever before. I am no longer sure I can place coherent thoughts to paper so I shall say good-bye for the moment. I suddenly feel the need to mourn with my brother and my friends over the loss of this great aviator and friend.  
  
Your loving son, Doug

----------

14 AUGUST 1918  
  
MRS. CHARLES ADLER:  
  
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON, ROBERT ANDREW CALVERT, DIED WITH HONOR IN THE AIR OVER NANCY, FRANCE ON AUGUST 9th 1918 - STOP - WE AT THE DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY WISH TO OFFER OUR CONDOLENCES TO YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY IN THIS TIME OF NEED - STOP - SERGEANT MAJOR WILLIAM GARRISON, AMERICAN AIR SERVICE - STOP


	9. Dogs of War

_Please note that some harsh language is used in this chapter, reflecting the tense nature of life and death at the front during the First World War._

"What do you mean, my brother hasn't returned?" Doug shouted furiously at Robert's mechanic. "His squad took off four hours ago! This is bullshit!"

Doug turned and stalked off to the hangar where his Nieuport was housed. "Get my plane gassed and ready to go in five minutes," he snapped to his mechanic as he slipped into his flight suit.

Owen stood outside of the large doors of the hangar, his tear-filled eyes failing at first to find his best friend in the dim vastness of the enclosed space. He found Doug quickly - too quickly - as he watched over the hurried preparations with hands fisted impatiently on his hips.

"Shit," Owen muttered when he realized it was his responsibility to inform Doug of the tragedy. Owen wearily rubbed his temples, suddenly wishing he were back in the comfortable surroundings of home. This was a tragedy they never expected. They saw death every day, in some instances they were the cause. The death of a friend, a brother, someone he had known practically all his life, left Owen feeling vulnerable and mentally off balance. He ran a hand through his short cropped hair and took a ragged breath for courage. Owen had heard the news only moments before himself, from Eddie Rickenbacker, as he passed outside the mess hall to prepare his plane for maneuvers.

"Look," Rickenbacker said, pointing a finger at Owen's chest. "Find Doug, tell him, but keep him contained. Campbell and a few guys from his squad took off to avenge Rob."

Rickenbacker watched Owen carefully for a moment, fully aware of the history of the three men. Revenge is what Campbell seemed to live for. Just as he went after the Hun that killed Lufberry months ago, now he was trying to avenge Robert Calvert, an honor Owen felt Doug deserved.

"Doug."

Doug turned around swiftly, startled. One look at Owen's face and Doug began to shake his head in denial. His lean body stiffened noticeably, his usually genial face an unreadable mask.

"No Owen. Not my brother." Doug looked beyond him towards the open doors of the hangar. A few men converged there, as news of the tragedy began to spread.

"You're kidding, Owen. Not Rob. Don't even tell me Rob is dead!" Doug shouted, his voice echoing and gathering density as it bounced off the hollow metal walls. He turned to his mechanic who had stopped working at the vehement sound.

"Finish my plane!" Doug snapped at the mechanic.

The oppressive August heat struck Doug as he stalked out of the hangar and into the blinding sunlight. The air seemed to shimmer and ripple above the dry flat ground. The teddy-bear suit used for flying was suffocating him from the sticky humidity. He unbuttoned it absently, peeling it off his upper body and tying the arms around his waist as he spun on Owen in fury.

Doug's mind was spinning, as he could not comprehend the loss of his brother. Why could he not get a clear picture of Rob in his mind? He had eaten breakfast across from his brother only a few hours ago. What the hell happened?

"When did the report come in? Who took it? How are they sure it was Rob?"

"Mike O'Reardon was the only member of Rob's squadron that returned. He saw him go down, Doug. From what I've heard so far, they think he caught a bullet in the fuel tank. The plane burst into flames and fell to the earth. Maybe Rob had no idea what hit him. O'Reardon said he saw him fall forward over the cockpit. He probably never felt the impact or the flames," Owen paused as he stared up at the hazy, white sky.

"Rob wasn't the only one. We lost six men today, including him," Owen could not help himself as he slumped down onto a pile of discarded tires.

"Oh Jesus, Doug," he groaned, leaning forward, covering his face with his hands. He felt as if someone had physically punched him in the gut. "Campbell and a few others went up as soon as the report came in. He was pretty tight with Rob and the men in his formation. They vowed revenge."

Doug stood silently with his eyes closed, pinching the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. A sensation of intense sickness and desolation swept through him like a sharp edged sword. His mouth felt like old paper, dried and turning to dust.

"Owen, my mother. Christ, Charlie-Jesus. This is going to kill them. Rob was going to marry Phoebe as soon as he returned home. My God. This is real isn't it? My baby brother isn't coming back. My bro-"

Doug turned away from Owen when he found he could no longer speak and kicked the side of the hangar. He let out an inarticulate howl of grief and anguish as he kicked and punched the hangar again and again, denting the thin metal and bruising his feet and fists. He pretended it was the artillery cannon, or the man operating it, that in his fevered mind cut short his brother's life. He could not feel any pain as he felt as if part of himself went down in flames with his brother.

His broad shoulders heaved from the exertion of damaging anything in front of him to compensate for the strong emotions he was unaccustomed to feeling. The tears slid down his face unnoticed, landing unceremoniously on his sweat-soaked undershirt.

When his strength left him, he leaned against the hangar, pressing his wet cheek to the cool steel. His body slumped in despair, his mind plagued by a sudden whirlwind of memories. Rob's first steps, viewed through the eyes of a disinterested four year old. Fishing at twelve, laughter as Doug pushed him into the ice-cold stream. Bedtime stories curled alongside of Charlie as he read them to sleep. Late night talks when they shared a bedroom as teenagers. Discussing with much reverence the dream of owning and operating an airfield. Rob was his best friend as well as his brother.

"Who else is gone?" Doug asked, his voice choked with emotion when Owen stood to clasp him by the shoulder.

"Bryan Anderson, Kenny Williams, Steve Horbeszwski, and John McManus."

Doug nodded in defeat as his body slid down the side of the hangar wall to the ground, elbows resting on his bent knees. He rested his forehead in his hands and cried silently. His hands moved down through his hair to clasp the back of his neck tightly. He stared blindly at the dirt as tears blurred his vision and pooled on the ground.

Owen stood guard a few feet away to make sure that Doug was left alone. He was certain although no one else had lost a brother, the other men of the aerodrome were grieving the loss of six comrades in one day. It was a hard number to fathom; it would take an even longer time for the eventuality of sudden death to sink home to the newer men. They would keep their distance, only of that was he sure.

Owen lit a hand rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Eddie Rickenbacker approached him as quietly as he could. "We were just notified. The wreckage has been found." Rickenbacker declared, his face ashen with shock.

"Where?"

"Not far, maybe five miles beyond the lines. We're going to inspect the damage. Will Doug want to join us?" Owen nodded his head solemnly as he turned to look at his friend's bent back.

"Yeah, give us ten minutes, okay? Have they found the other wrecks?" It was Rickenbacker's turn to nod.

"Campbell's plane returned about five minutes ago. He also has requested to come along. O'Reardon's going to join us, if only to explain what the hell happened."

"Nobody else, Ed. Doug is going to need some peace, okay?" Rickenbacker nodded and walked away.

As they drove hell-bent towards the wreck site, Michael O'Reardon began to tell the story of the doomed flight. Miraculously he had returned the airfield virtually unharmed, leaving Doug to wonder why Mike was spared and his brother dead.

Doug watched Mike in the motor car with growing hostility, the other man's only crime was that he was alive and Rob was not.

Did Fate play a part in war? Or was Death the only Fury that walked among the battlegrounds?

Mike found he had to shout to be heard over the continually howling wind, which threatened to swallow his words from the speeding open-topped motor car. "We reached the aerodrome at the Richtofen Circus without incident. It started out as a beautiful day for flying. We strafed the hangars and billets of the Richtofen until our ammunition was gone. But we had traveled fifty miles to reach the enemy aerodrome. As we turned to go home, we found the wind was suddenly against us. We'd been out over an hour; there was no way we'd have enough fuel to get home in the gale winds. They were tossing us all over the place. It must have been blowing at least forty miles an hour!"

Mike paused for emphasis; belatedly realizing this was not a group who wanted to be entertained by his tale, they only wanted to hear the cold facts. He cleared his throat after seeing the hard faces of his companions and continued.

"Rob must have decided to try and land us at closer aerodrome, just across the lines 'cause suddenly he started leading us north. Halfway there we encountered several formations of Huns. They were fully aware of our situation.

"How could they have known? They must've been waiting for us to fly overhead. Rob tried, God, he tried. Back and forth and up and down, he tried to break us through their ranks. I don't know how he did it, but suddenly he was through.

"They were relentless as they shot at us. He took the brunt of a lot of shots from the Huns, enabling the squad to break through the lines. As his plane began to spin out of control, Kenny was shot through the fuel tank and fell almost parallel with him to the ground. But it wasn't enough. Why wasn't it enough? Christ on the cross, I've never been that scared in my life.

"Rob was a great leader and he died trying to get us home. One by one our planes began to run out of fuel and spiraled to the ground. I pressed my plane on, praying to God, praying for it to run on petrol fumes, anything to get me close to the lines. I saw Bryan and John's planes crash and burst into flames upon impact. I don't know what happened to Steve.

"My plane-my plane began to sputter when I was a few miles from the front. I began to descend when the others crashed. I didn't know what I was going to do. When the engine died, I tried to keep it even with the ground. But I was approaching too fast. The nose of the plane dived, and I was holding onto the stick for dear life, to keep it steady. When I hit the ground, the wings dislodged and the fuselage slid about another thirty feet. I must have blacked out on impact 'cause when I came to, I realized I wasn't far from the aerodrome and began to set out on foot.

"I was picked up by the French police and driven back home."

Rob had made the ultimate sacrifice for his men. Could he have been so brave if he had known the outcome? If he had known almost his entire squad would be wiped out would he have had the courage to relinquish his life so easily? Would Doug have been as brave if faced with the same situation?

Doug rubbed his throbbing temples; he felt as if his brain was straining against the confines of his skull. Why had he chosen to come along to view the wreckage? Wouldn't Jason have been sufficiently able to verify that it was indeed Rob?

Oh, Mother, I am so sorry I failed to keep him safe.

The car screeched to a halt. They did not have much time. Soon the sun would be down and the need for lights to find their way home would be upon them.

Robert's body had been recovered from the wreckage by the grim-faced and weathered townsfolk. There was no comfort in seeing the charred and wrecked remains of the fuselage.

The plane had disintegrated upon falling from the sky and slamming into the earth from such a high altitude. The small group of men moved sluggishly into the abandoned church where Rob's broken body was entirely covered with wildflowers.

Doug approached him tentatively, suddenly shy of the task before him. As he knelt beside the body, he found his brother's hand and held on to it tightly. Uncontrollable sobs seized him and he slumped to his knees, covering his eyes with his free hand. He lost all sense of time as he said his final good-bye. As far as he knew, he might have been kneeling there for five minutes or for five hours, when Owen gently lead him away.

"Eddie left instructions for Rob to be sent to the American Hospital near the aerodrome. The funeral will be tomorrow."

Doug nodded absently, too distracted by mourning his brother to give much notice to the details of the impending funeral. They returned to the aerodrome in silence.

The plots for Rob and his fallen comrades had already been dug in the dry earth. Rob was to be laid to rest alongside the much-missed Major Lufberry.

The following day the entire aerodrome stood eerily silently for the funeral of their fallen friends. The empty wreck of Steve Horbeszwski's Nieuport was discovered only this morning. The consensus of the aerodrome was to believe he was still alive and making his way home. Rickenbacker's squad flew past, fifty feet above in the sky, raining flowers onto the open graves.

Twenty miles away, the almost musical sound of machine gun fire and exploding shells floated to the graveside on the wind. This was closest the aerodrome had ever been moved to the front, exaggerating the fevered apex of the war.

Douglas Calvert stood stoically alone alongside the grave, some what apart from the other mourners. His eyes were dry now, for he felt impervious to any show of grief. His gaze always fell ten to twelve feet away from the empty hole where his brother was to be interred. He found that the only way he could endure seeing Rob was to keep him in the periphery of his vision. He was immune to the words of the chaplain, and to the many friends who spoke of Rob's benevolent demeanor.

The time for tears and pain had passed. He was going to need to be strong for himself and the rest of the squadron. It would have shattered the last of his group's control to see him plunge off the deep end of a nervous breakdown.

The quiet, introspective Douglas Calvert who had entered the war almost three years ago was gone. In his place stood a hard man with cold, dark eyes, a man who only had one agenda for the remainder of the war: avenging his brother's untimely death.

Owen stood by Doug, if not immediately beside him. He could feel the rage radiating like heat from his friend, could sense the coiled anger inside Doug, awaiting the opportunity to be released, to strike the enemy down.

If the only requirement of his mission was to shoot down as many Germans as humanly possible, so be it. He vowed to go across the front everyday, as many times as he could get away with it, methodically searching and destroying enemy formations that dared to cross his path.

When his time came, if it came in the air while at war, Douglas Calvert's covenant was to meet it with the same unending courage and faithfulness of his beloved and lost younger brother.


	10. Distant Memories

_Tears of loss awoke me slowly, bathing my face in the coolness of my wet pillow. _

_The sobs chased me into a sleep of grief remembered, into the dark recesses of my mind I too often tread. _

_When I awoke I was beyond feelings of love or grief, alone as the sun curled pink along the darkened sky. I held the vision of the black behemoth fresh in my mind, the salty smell of the ocean filling my nostrils. The sound of the piercing whistle rang hollowly in my ears. _

_Titanic haunts me still. _

_Today, tomorrow, forever. _

Sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, falling gently over the oak farmer's table, warming its weathered top as Rose dropped her pen. The late September day was beautiful, with a soft brisk breeze blowing the white chenille curtains across the silent figure sitting in the bright light. The leather bound journal lay open before her, the ink drying rapidly in the sun.

Rose sat at the table, one leg curled beneath her, hands curved around a mug of freshly brewed cider. She brought the mug to her lips, but didn't sip. She breathed deeply of the spicy apple aroma, enjoying the scent as much as she would enjoy the first taste.

Another fall has come, another year almost over. April would make it seven years since the sinking and the loss of Jack.

Jack.

She put the cup down on the table, her arm bathed in the light. Her hands now belied her position in life. They were no longer soft, milky white hands, covered in gloves for an evening out on the town. Gone were the cotillions and the ball gowns, as she was no longer a member of high society.

This is I, making it count, the way I promised so long ago, Rose thought as she closed her eyes against the past.

_"I saw that in a nickelodeon once, and I always wanted to do it."_

Her eyes flew open, searching for the voice, which had spoken so loudly behind her moments ago.

Haunted, she thought, shaking her head sadly.

She pulled the curtain aside, staring across the lawn to the Jenny sitting on the tarmac awaiting her. It wasn't only the memory of Jack, which weighed heavy on her on her mind. It was also the flight plan sitting on the table; the one Charlie had forbidden her to fly.

She leaned forward in her chair, pushing her journal out of the way and brought the flight plan before her. Her elbows rested on the table as she stared at the paper she already memorized in her mind. She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand and sighed.

Rose remembered the previous evening, as she sat out on the back porch, staring up at the stars in the black, clear sky. Pulling a pouch of tobacco from her pocket, she absently rolled a cigarette. Striking a match to the concrete steps, she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Rose exhaled a long tube of gray smoke, blowing out the match and feeling the rush of nicotine as it swirled through out her body.

The screen door opened behind her, lightly squeaking. Charlie wearily sat beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. "Mind if I have cigarette?" He asked quietly.

Rose handed him the pouch of tobacco and continued to stare at the stars as he rolled a cigarette. Charlie sighed and stared at the burning ember of his cigarette.

"I don't think it is a good idea for you to fly to Philadelphia in the morning. I know you've heard the stories of the sickness there."

"Yes, I have," Rose replied as she stubbed out her cigarette and turned towards Charlie. "But I don't think a few news stories should keep us from completing a job we were contracted to do"

Charlie choked on his cigarette smoke. "A few news stories?" He asked, incredulous.

"Rose, I don't know if you've been reading the papers or not, but there is a full fledged epidemic going on in that city. Too many people are dying every day. Between this and the war, I'm scared shit-less.

"It's bad enough I lost my son a month ago, but now I have friends here, in town, who are getting sick and dying too. Before this, death was heard of but it was never spoken of. In the past few months it has entered my house. My house!"

He placed heavy emphasis on those last two words. Unshed tears choked his voice as he savagely threw the cigarette to the ground. "I'm an old man with bad knees. Which is the only reason I didn't enlist when Doug and Rob did. They wouldn't take me. So here I sit; watching helplessly as young men I've known since they were babies show up on killed in action lists. Here I sit, on this porch, trembling with terror every single time a motor car cruises by because I'm afraid another telegram is going to be delivered telling me my other son is dead. I have a wife who thinks the only way to work through her grief is to help every single sick person in town, paying no mind to the fact that she can contract this mysterious Spanish Flu and die herself!"

His voice bridled with barely suppressed anger. "I can't control what happens to Doug over there, but I can sure as hell control what goes on in my airfield. I forbid you to fly to Philadelphia tomorrow. The goddamn government contract can go to hell for all I care! It's not worth the loss of any more lives."

Charlie stood silently, emotionally spent from his outburst. Without another word he turned and went back into the house, slamming the screen door behind him.

Rose was brought back to the present as she stared unseeing at the neatly piled papers. Next to the flight plan sat the morning newspaper, the headline screaming the "war to end all wars" was drawing to a close.

But it was the smaller story that caught her eye and made her blood run cold. The stories out of her hometown that rocked her back, making the nightmares come with ever increasing frequency.

News stories of the influenza epidemic in Philadelphia filled the additional pages of the paper, the closing of all the schools, churches, vaudeville shows and saloons in the city. The already staggering loss of life there was overwhelming. Red Cross volunteers were sewing influenza masks and shrouds for the dead. College dorm rooms now doubled as hospital wards. The shortages of competent doctors, as the men at the front in Europe were as deathly ill as the people back home.

How can it be after all this time I worry still for your safety, Mother?

Charlie was adamant that she not fly this particular job for fear of contacting the mysterious illness. But she needed to find out if her mother was still alive or one of the ever growing number of dead in the city.

Sarah would understand if she were here. But Sarah had not been home in three days. "I could catch this influenza here as easily as I could catch it in Philadelphia!" Rose exclaimed to the empty house.

The sound of her own voice made her jump and catch her breath. She gathered up her belongings and started up the stairs to her room. She tucked her journal into her satchel, leaving the flight map on the kitchen table.

Once in her room, she laid the open newspaper on her bed. She circled the story of the epidemic with her pen, adding only two words, knowing Sarah would understand.

My mother.

Adrenaline coursed through her body as she quickly pushed clothes into her satchel. She wouldn't take the plane, but she was not stranded at the airfield without transportation. Her course of action decided, she raced down the stairs, pausing only long enough to scrawl a short note to the Adlers. She flew out of the house, running past the waiting plane. The hangar doors banged loudly as she threw them open, rushing over to her motor car and pulling the tarp off to fall in a scattered heap in the corner. She turned the engine over, putting the car in gear and drove out of the hangar without a second glance.  
  
When she arrived in Philadelphia three days later, her car was screaming for petrol. She breathed a sigh of relief to find a station not far beyond the city limits. The car chugged in wounded and wheezing, as it finally came to a complete stop just inside petrol lot.

Unnerved by the silence, she sat in the car for a few moments trying to get her bearings. Usually there were ten or more men standing around, smoking and gossiping as cars and buggies traveled back and forth on the busy road.

Not today.

A shiver of unease rolled down her back.

"Hello?"

Rose called towards the garage bays as she stepped out of the motorcar, the silence weighing heavily across the deserted petrol station.

There was no reply as she grabbed her satchel and began to walk. Her unease increased as she passed shuttered houses, and empty side streets.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the lumbering sounds of a trolley car could be heard from behind her. She turned and waited as it approached her slowly. Rose jumped into a half-filled trolley car, the few other passengers watching her with barely veiled apprehension.

Surprised horror replaced relief as she watched a sneezing man violently ejected from his seat and the moving trolley by the other passengers. The woman sitting next to her, her face marred by acute sadness, pulled a gauze mask from her bag and handed it to Rose. "Here, my dear, use this. Please be safe," she murmured, as the trolley shuddered to a stop.

Rose jumped off, escaping the tight confines of the trolley at the first opportunity. She ran through the deserted streets, her terror increasing with the number of closed storefronts. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her chest; her breathing shallow and ragged. She tied the mask around her face as an after thought, frantic to reach her home.

Forgotten were her mother's actions that final week, the way she treated Jack, her all encompassing attitude towards the less fortunate. Rose just needed to know she was okay, that she was still alive, before it was too late.

She ran by three forgotten, gaunt little girls, jumping rope while singing a morbid rhyme: "I had a little bird, and its name was Emma, I opened the door, and in-flew- Enza."

"Oh God," she murmered as fear slivered down her spine.

Reaching the Main Line, her footsteps slowed as she walked past the grand manor houses. The day was overcast and cold, casting a grayish pallor over the already eerie neighborhood. Leaves cluttered the cobblestones; branched lays in heaps in untended yards as their owners either deserted them for safer places, or were too sick to venture outside.

Rose felt as if she were the last person on earth alive. She passed the large mansions silently, her eyes focused alone on the DeWitt Bukater House at the end of the block.

It stood above street level on a large, tree filled lot. Tears welled in her eyes at the neglected state of her childhood home. It was built the year before she was born, as a wedding present for her once happy parents. She stood at the gate, hands wrapped around the cold steel as she stared up at the formidable house.

It was a study in Georgian architecture, with its massive rectangular shape, symmetrically positioned façade and porches. She stared at the front door, protected by the portico. She remembered only too well what lie behind that door, the wainscoted wood of the small vestibule. She opened the inner door in her mind, facing the double sweeping stairway with graceful curves and fluted newels that led the eyes up to the landing and the large stained glass Palladian window.

Rose wistfully remembered playing in the entrance hall as the sunlight flowed through the glass, filtering the colors into a prism on the oak floor like a canvas for a rainbow. Separated from the entrance hall by pocket doors was the parlor, where her mother would entertain guests who rang for tea. Rose closed her eyes, envisioning her mother sweeping down the stairs, scolding her for the mess she made in the foyer.

The smell of lavender and verbena would follow Ruth, as she called for Rose's nanny to come collect her small charge. She could still hear the sound of the pocket doors closing as her nanny bent to pick her up and carry her back to the nursery.

Diagonally across from the parlor, through a rounded arched opening stood the formal library. It was a rich room, embellished with mahogany moldings, and an elegant leaded tripartite window.

Rose spent most of her evenings here, curled luxuriously in the window seat, her mind firmly afloat in the works of Yeats or Kipling. She shared this room with her father, who kept his massive desk at the other end of the room.

How she used to love to interrupt his work, reading passages from her newest books loudly him from across the room. He would smile at her, put his work aside to come sit with her, so they could discuss current events and the books.

The smells of home filled her consciousness as her tears moistened her gauze mask. It was the lavender of Ruth's sachet, the cigars and brandy of her father, which made her sob miserably.

Rose was overcome with an incredible feeling of acute homesickness, hoping beyond hope her mother was alive and well behind the closed front door.

If only once more she could roam the hallways of her childhood home, sliding her hand along the smooth banister of the stairs as she slowly made her way to the nursery.

Rose smiled bitterly through her tears, remembering the time when she was four she decided to slide down said banister and she broke her arm. Her mother frantically ran from the parlor at Rose's scream, shouting for her father and the servants. She scooped her small daughter up in her arms, unknowingly jarring Rose's arm, making her scream again. Her father took one look at her arm and yelled for the house servant to run quickly for the doctor.

Ruth held Rose to her breast, shushing her tears, repeating over and over as she rocked, that is was going to be okay. The doctor would be here soon and he would make the hurt go away. Rose, with her good arm, reached up to her mother's face and felt Ruth's tears.

"Why are you crying Momma, did you hurt your arm too?" Little Rose asked between sobs.

"No angel, I'm crying because you're hurt. Momma's crying because she loves you and she doesn't like to see you in pain." Small Rose nodded, smiling once softly before she slipped into unconsciousness.

It was this memory, of Ruth's tears that propelled her through the gate and to the front door.

Rose rang the bell before she lost her courage and faltered as a strange servant answered the door. "Does Ruth Bukater live here?" Rose asked as she ripped off the mask. "Is this still the DeWitt Bukater house?"

"Yes," the servant replied. "But Mrs.Bukater is too ill for visitors."

He stared at her, his gaze haughty, only seeing Rose's disheveled appearance.

"I'm -- I'm her daughter. I need to see her."

The servant grew angry. "Rose DeWitt Bukater died six years ago. You are not Rose DeWitt Bukater."

"Where is Sally? What happened to Toby? Do they still serve here? They can vouch for who I am. They helped raise me for God's sake!" Rose cried as she bodily pushed past the startled servant.

She rushed up the stairs and ran down the hall to the master suite. Throwing open the door, she stopped suddenly as an unfamiliar doctor hovered over the deathly ill Ruth, backing away hastily as Rose entered the room.

The figure on the bed no longer resembled her mother from her memories. Her once vibrant red hair was now streaked with gray. Her face was sickly, her lips blue. Ruth's appearance was not as shocking as the wet sucking sound she made as she tried to breathe.

"Is she dying?" Rose whispered as she approached, kneeling by her mother's side. "Please tell me she is going to be all right."

The older man shook his head silently. "As of right now, I don't think she is going to survive the night. She took a turn for the worse this morning, as the sickness entered her lungs."

"How did this happen?" Rose whispered as she grasped her mother's hand, careful not to clutch the fragile skin and bones too tightly.

"The same as it began for everyone else. High fever, chills headache and dry cough. She realized she was ill and took to her bed three days ago. I had a little hope, as she survived the first thirty-six hours. But now I fear pneumonia has entered her lungs. If she doesn't regain consciousness by nightfall, it will be too late."

Rose nodded a stab of guilt striking her chest. "I have other patients to care for. I will return as soon as I can. Am I safe in assuming you are her daughter?"

"What?" Rose asked, distracted. The doctor inclined his head towards her mother's bureau and the fireplace mantle, which were adorned by pictures of Rose in various stages of her life.

Rose turned slowly, overwhelmed at the sight of the shrine her mother erected for her in this room.

"What can I do? What can I do for her?" She asked, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The doctor turned to her sadly as he picked up his black bag.

"At this point?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. His eyes were ringed with black circles and bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Make sure she is comfortable, keep the windows open. Talk to her, make her realize that you are here. Try to get her to sip some water if she comes to."

He opened the bedroom door, pausing before he walked out. "Pray, Miss Bukater. Right now, I would pray."

Then he was gone and Rose was alone with her mother.


	11. A Hope for Redemption

Rose bit her bottom lip indecisively as she backed away from her mother's bed. What was she doing there?

It was too late to run back to the airfield now. She lost her chance to slip into obscurity the moment she burst through the front door. If she left now, if her mother survived, the servants would tell Ruth Rose had been here. What would that accomplish?

Nothing other than more unanswered questions. Would her mother live? Would she die? How callous of her to realize she was hoping it was the latter, hoping the confrontation she had been dreading would never come. Rose felt vaguely shamed by this admission, rubbing her hand along the back of her neck as she moved over to the window to stare unseeing at the deserted street.

Her stomach let out a loud growl, reminding her not so gently the last time she had eaten was two days ago and she rubbed it absently.

The overcast sky finally released the rain to fall in sheets on the deserted cobblestones. Everything around the yard gleamed, hiding the mystery of the influenza, making it appear the streets were deserted because of the weather. Rose absently released her braid, running her hands through the mass of red curls. One of these days she was just going to take the plunge and cut it all off, like those actresses in the moving pictures of late.

Ruth coughed and groaned in her sleep. Rose looked up sharply, but Ruth was still asleep.

There was a slight knock on the door and it opened, revealing a round woman dressed in a maid's uniform.

"Good evn'ng, miss," she said with a slight Irish brogue. "Thought you might like a spot of tea."

"Thank you," Rose said as she waved the maid to place the tray on the table by the window.

"If you don't mind me saying so miss, you look a fright. Might you allow me to draw you a bath and find some fresh clothes?"

Rose nodded absently. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The woman beamed, transforming her pleasant face to an oddly beautiful one. "Well, me name is Kathy, miss. I've been with Miz Ruth here for about five years."

Rose smiled briefly.

"Your mother is going to be so happy you've come home. She missed you something fierce, she did."

The smile faded from Rose's lips. "Please run the bath for me, Kathy, I shall be forever grateful," Rose said, ignoring the maid's last statement.

The maid curtsied once, before taking her leave. How would her mother react if she awoke to find Rose standing before her?

Ruth would not be pleased, Rose thought bitterly.

It was beyond her control now, as it was now fate's decision if the reunion would take place. So much time had passed since the last time she had seen her mother, when Ruth demanded she get into the lifeboat.

"After all that happened Mother, have you changed?"

When the bath was over and the hunger pains in her belly abated Rose slumped tiredly into the chair by the window. How odd it felt to be wearing a skirt again after so long. It was restraining, as she was used to the freedom of trousers. But if her mother were to awaken, she thought it might be wise to dress appropriately.

The maid had started a fire in the hearth while Rose was bathing, to take the edge off the chill from the open windows. Before she realized it, she was asleep, the last few days finally taking a toll on her.

A slight knock at the door awakened her sometime in the late afternoon. She sat up slowly, her mind fuzzy, not remembering if she dreamt.

"Ah, Miss DeWitt Bukater."

It was the doctor from this morning, back from his other patients.

"My name is Dawson, Doctor. Rose Dawson." Rose said as she stood from the chair, rubbing her sleep filled eyes.

"My mistake, I'm sorry," the doctor smiled apologetically, tired. "I didn't see a ring."

Her eyes flashed angrily. "I'm sorry, Dr.—" Rose raised herself up to her full height, a haughty expression on her face. Invisible corset strings tightened her ribcage, trying to mold her once more into Rose DeWitt Bukater, making it difficult to breathe. Society hasn't changed, Rose, she silently thought to herself. You have.

"Forgive me, my name is Doctor Arnaud Blanchard. How is your mother, Mrs. Dawson?"

"I – I fell asleep. I don't know if she has awakened or not." Doctor Blanchard moved quickly over to her mother's bedside, placing his hand on Ruth's forehead.

"Her temperature is down a bit. That is a good sign." He removed a stethoscope from his black bag and listened to her mother's lungs. "She seems to be doing much better than she was morning. There is hope for her yet."

Rose stood, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. How inconsiderate of her to fall asleep when she should have been watching over her mother. "I'm sorry for not, for not watching her the way I was supposed to."

"No harm done, Mrs. Dawson. I haven't slept in what seems like a week. This morning, you looked a lot worse for wear than I did. Your body needs the sleep to keep up your strength. Although, I must admit you did give me quite a scare when you burst into the room this morning. I was under the impression that Mrs. Bukater's daughter died a long time ago."

Rose blinked furiously. "Well, sir, it seems you were misinformed. Here I am."

"As you are," the doctor glanced over at the sleeping Ruth. "When she wakes, as I am now sure she will, keep your distance for a few days, Mrs. Dawson. Allow her strength to return. Remember your mother was deathly ill."

Rose tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "How well exactly, do you know my family, Doctor Blanchard? When did you become the family doctor?"

"I am actually the Hockley family doctor, Mrs. Dawson. Caledon Hockley's family members are my patients. I have come to Philadelphia from Pittsburgh to look after them in this time of sickness and Mr. Hockley asked me to look in on Mrs. Bukater as a personal favor."

"So I supposed you ran to Cal to tell him his long lost fiancée has returned from the dead?" Rose asked, her face flushing with anger.

"It is not my place to tell Caledon Hockley anything of the sort. If your mother or you wish to tell the Hockley family at a later date, that is your decision. My only concern is for the well being of your mother and the Hockley family. I do not dawdle in gossip, it is none of my concern." His accent grew thicker, as he became incensed. It was an odd mix of French, with a hint of backwoods Cajun. Rose recognized it from her days in New Orleans, this musical way the words threaded together in a lyrical tempo.

For an all to brief moment, she was lost in the engaging world of the Vieux Carre, lost in the tempting world of decadence and elegance. She bowed her head, ashamed that once again her temper managed to get the best of her and she touched her fingers to her forehead in a calming gesture.

"I am sorry, Dr. Blanchard. This is all so very overwhelming for me. I never imagined that I would be here again, in this house with my mother. Then to find out that my mother is still in contact with Cal--, Mr. Hockley, I am sorry that I snapped at you."

"Mrs. Dawson, whatever took place between you, your mother and Caledon Hockley is none of my concern. You have no fear in feeling that I would betray whatever secrets you hold. Like I said earlier, my only concern is for your mother to get well."

"Am I dead?" A weak voice asked behind them.

They both turned towards the bed startled to find Ruth struggling to sit up against her pillows. Doctor Blanchard rushed to her side, taking her pulse and asking her inane questions about how she felt. Ruth looked around him, her watery blue eyes fastened upon her daughter's.

"As I said before, am I dead?"

"No, ma'am," The doctor said gently, kneeling beside her bed. "You are going to be just fine."

"Then why is Rose here?"

The doctor looked up at Rose, who stood frozen, her face pale as her hands twitched against her blue skirt. He rose slowly, picking up a pitcher of water sitting alongside the bed. He poured a small amount into a glass. "Please, Mrs. Bukater. Drink some water."

Ruth allowed him to place the glass to her lips, taking a few small sips before collapsing back against the pillows. Her breathing racked painfully as coughs shook her small frame.

Rose opened her mouth and closed it several times, unable to come up with anything to say. Now that the moment she dreaded had arrived, Rose found she suddenly lost her courage to face her mother.

Rose cleared her throat and found her voice to speak. "I—I was concerned for your safety, Mother. I heard about the epidemic in Philadelphia and I decided to see for myself that you were well taken care of." Rose said, struggling to be heard over her loudly beating heart.

Dr. Blanchard sent her a look, that said: _Tread carefully, I can not have your mother upset so soon after awakening_.

He approached Rose, gently taking her elbow. "Come, Mrs. Dawson, I think we should allow Ruth time to recover, before—"

"Dawson?" Ruth asked, agitation in her voice. "Not only did you survive Titanic and not let me know, but you married that—that boy?"

"No, Mother, I did not marry Jack. He was lost that night with so many other men who deserved to live. But I chose to start anew, with his name."

Dr. Blanchard tightened his grip on her elbow. "Mrs. Dawson, I really think we should be going. This type of excitement would only be detrimental to your mother's health."

"My health is not the concern here, Dr. Blanchard, not as much as what my daughter thought she would accomplish by returning from the dead after all this time," Ruth said, her voice fragile and shaking.

"I came here, Mother, because I was worried about you." Rose pulled her elbow out of Dr. Blanchard's grasp and slowly approached the bed. "I have no ulterior motive other than to see you return to good health."

"Rose, you always have an ulterior motive," Ruth said, her voice resigned. "That is who you are."

With that, Ruth settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Dr. Blanchard rushed to her side, relieved to find Ruth only sleeping.

"Come, Mrs. – Miss Dawson, shall we find a bedroom for you to sleep in? I think it might be best for you to come back in the morning," he said in a voice that seemed to Rose to come from great distance.

She allowed herself to be led away from the bedroom, as a gamut of perplexing emotions assailed her confused mind. Rose walked the doctor to the front door, silently shutting it behind him after he promised to return in the morning. She nodded absently as another maid she did not recognize asked her if she would be staying for the evening.

"Please prepare my room," she said softly, her mind miles away from the DeWitt Bukater home.

Rose settled in the library, also unchanged since her father's death. She brooded for hours, as she could not understand why she remained. In her lap she held a book plucked nceremoniously from the shelves, but only her hands played over the open pages, as she stared outside at the gathering gloom.

_Si on me presse de dire pourquoi je l'aimais, je sens que cela ne se peut s'exprimer, qu'en respondant: "Parce que c'etait lui, parce que c'etait moi."_

"If I am pressed to say why I loved him, I feel it can be explained only by replying: "Because it was he; because it was me."

Would her mother understand if she asked what it was about Jack that opened her heart and searched her soul? If she quoted Montaigne, would Ruth understand what it felt like to be loved so purely?

Could it be true what her mother said earlier? Did she always have an ulterior motive? Did she use Jack only as a means to escape a life she felt was worst than death? Or did she truly, unequivocally love him? Rose sighed as the maid, Kathy, brought a tray into the room.

She quietly told Rose to leave the tray when she was finished her meal; she would come along later to collect it. How dare her mother make her search her soul like this? What was the purpose now?

"Miss," Kathy stood in the doorway again, visibly uncomfortable as she touched a hand to her temple. "Your mother is awake and she is asking for you to come to her."

Rose nodded as she stood to return the book to the shelves. Now the time that filled her with dread had arrived. Why had she returned? Was Rose honestly here to make amends with her mother? Or was she just trying to clear a guilty conscience for allowing her mother to believe she died when Titanic sank? Is this how a condemned man must feel as he walks the final mile to certain death?

Rose slowly climbed the wide stairs to the second floor, trailing her hand over the smooth wood of the railing.

I must take charge of my emotions, she thought. I am no longer a child that my mother controls. I am an aviatrix, an accomplished actress. I must not let my mother see my fear.

The hallway seemed much too short as she soon found herself outside of her mother's closed door. She rapped twice, then without waiting for an answer, let herself in.

Ruth sat among the pillows, freshly groomed, but pale and obviously sick, awaiting her daughter.

"So, the prodigal daughter returns. Where have you been all this time, Rose?" Ruth asked without preamble as she waved Rose to a chair nearby. She began to cough earnestly, refusing Rose's help as she placed a lined handkerchief to her lips. After her coughing subsided, she settled back against the pillows.

"Please do not answer that question. I only realize now that I do not care." Ruth reached for the glass of water alongside her bed and sipped. When she returned the water to the bedside, she pulled the covers farther up her waist.

"The doctor was correct in saying that having you here would be detrimental to my health. So I have decided you shall be allowed to stay here this night. In the morning, I wish for you to leave."

"Is this honestly what you wish, Mother?" Rose asked, her tone complacent.

"When Caledon learns you were here, as I see no way of him not finding out, I could lose my home." Ruth spoke calmly, although her eyes were flat and passionless.

"What are you saying?" Rose asked, her voice rising slightly.

"This is the DeWitt Bukater house in name only, Rose. It belongs to the Hockley family now. I am only allowed to stay here out of the good grace of Caledon."

Or out of guilt, Rose thought, biting her bottom lip until she could feel her pulse, to keep the words from tumbling out.

"You see, Rose, I truly am nothing more than a pauper. If I was to lose this house and the small stipend I am allowed monthly, I would be forced to find work, a prospect which, at my age I'm afraid, does not interest me. You may have decided years ago I did not matter to you any longer, that in fact you were strong enough to set off on your own to forge your own life away from society, but this is all I know. It has been my life for so long now that without it, I would die. You were not the only one to suffer with the sinking of Titanic. But that has always been your way, hasn't it?" Ruth's eyes were filled with a curious deep longing. She sighed as she dropped her hands into her lap.

"When did you become such a selfish person, Rose?" Her mother whispered.

Rose's eyes widened. "How dare you," she hissed forgetting her mother's illness. "How can you lie there, accusing me of being selfish? I wasn't the one who thought our only means to escape debt was to sell your daughter to the highest bidder. I did not travel three days straight to sit here and be insulted by you, Mother."

Ruth's pale blue eyes only held sadness as she stared at her daughter.

"Once again, the earth has to revolve around you, Rose. How you feel, how it all affects you and your world. To be honest with you, I don't know what that boy ever saw in you.

"Yes, Rose, you are strikingly beautiful. Even more so now, with your skin bronzed by the sun and your face flushed with anger. But you would have eaten him alive, Rose. He would never have been able to make you happy. I don't suppose that even you knew what it would take to make Rose happy. Lord knows I tried for many years after your father died. You might have had a slight possibility at happiness with Caledon, if you had only given him a chance."

"What?" Rose asked, dumbstruck, amazed after all this time Ruth was still praising Cal as a wonderful match for her.

"He struck me, Mother!" Rose spat out the words contemptuously as she stood from her chair, still ignoring the fragile state of health her mother was in. "How could you have thought I would ever be happy with a monster who feels the only way to control a woman is with his fists!"

"Review your actions, that final week. What would you have done, if the roles were reversed?"

"I would not have tried to tame him by beating him into submission, Mother. As for Jack Dawson, you never knew him at all. What Jack did for me, freeing me from the human bondage you so artfully wrapped me in, I cannot even begin to explain to you tonight."

Rose weakly sat back down in the chair behind her, losing her strength for the fight. Ruth had struck an all-too-familiar chord from Rose's own guilty late-night musings. She closed her eyes, remembering all too briefly, Jack's keen, probing eyes. She sighed as she looked away towards the darkened window.

"Are you deliberately trying to drive me away?" She asked quietly.

Ruth smiled sadly, before coughing into her linen handkerchief again. "I suppose I may be. I loved you. I hope you understand that. You have your faults, too many to list now. But I did love you. I honestly thought what I was doing was for the best."

"But," Rose began.

"But what? Would you have me come with you, wherever you might call home?"

At the sight of Rose's blanched face, Ruth continued. "I didn't think that was what you had in mind. See even now, Rose, you wanted to come here and dictate our reunion on your terms. I can't have that. I refuse to allow it any longer."

Rose sighed and glanced at the ceiling. "What about you, Mother? What about the shortcomings you have lying so close to the surface. And you call me selfish. I can live without all this." She waved a hand towards to brocade walls and antique furniture. "I have lived without it. I've lived without you. Is this what it all comes down to? Punishment because I can live without society, and you can not?"

"Come now, Rose. Is this why you've traveled so far? To fight with me? I cannot change the past anymore than you can. Caledon is not faultless, he never was. I am not, nor ever was, ignorant of that fact. But I thought, I hoped, in time, you would have come to love him. I am sorry if I never truly knew you. But I suppose I never will. I cannot change who I was then, not now. Once again, I truly tried to do my best by you Rose, and I am sorry you feel I failed miserably. Tonight, I would just like to say I will continue to miss you every day for the remainder of my life."

"So you truly never wish to see me again?" Rose asked, her eyes filling with unbidden tears.

"Seeing you here today, is a memory I feel will sustain me much longer than the last one I have of you," Ruth smiled ruefully. "Seven years is a long time to mourn anyone. I hope you never have to suffer through the loss of a child. It is a pain so deep, and so harsh, I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

"I have finally come to a place in my life where I can no longer be concerned with any one other than myself. This wasn't my first bout of sickness, Rose. Nor will it be my last. I do not think I will be on this earth much longer. I do not tell you this so you feel sorry for me, I tell you this so maybe one day you will understand. I shan't ever mourn you again. I can't, Rose." Ruth looked down at her hands, unable to meet her daughter's eyes.

"Do not leave word where you are in the world as I do not wish to know. Although Caledon is married with children, you are still an unnatural obsession to him. I cannot reveal your location if I honestly do not know."

Rose nodded as she slowly stood from her chair. She turned to leave, but looked back to her mother one last time.

"May I approach you, Momma?" She asked, her voice small and child-like.

Ruth looked up in surprised, but nodded her head slowly. Rose sat down alongside her mother and gathered her in her arms.

"I have missed you. There has been many times through the years where I thought I would return home. But I didn't, and that is a cross I will have to bear for the remainder of my days, Mother." Ruth hugged her daughter tightly to her one final time.

"I wish you happiness, Rose. I truly hope in my heart one day you will be loved and will love in return. But the hour grows late and I am so very tired. It has been a long and emotionally trying day. Shall we call a truce, you and I?

I have had a long time to grieve. Now it shall be your turn to mourn what might have been."


	12. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Chapter 11 something wicked this way comes...  
  
Charlie Adler walked out of the meeting hall and pulled down the gauze mask covering the lower half of his face, taking a deep cleansing breath of the late October air. He was leaving the hall after he and the few fellow council members not yet affected by the influenza mandated a quarantine of town. They had ordered every possible place for social gathering closed, fearful of the spread of influenza which was rapidly over taking the small community. Just in the last twenty-four hours, fifty two new cases were presented to the overworked doctors and nurses who had set up the gym of the primary school as their base of operations. Of the fifty-two, nine people had already died.  
  
Notices were going up on every bulletin board and shop window available, but it was if the town itself had died. The last train had disembarked a few hours ago, leaving with a mournful whistle as the railroad was notified of the impending quarantine.  
  
It was disconcerting, seeing the streets of the usually busy town deserted on a Wednesday afternoon. There were no cars or buggies moving down the streets, no people to be seen as many kept to their homes to fight the infection on their own terms. Many storefront doors stood open as there was no worry of robbery or looting in the newly formed ghost town. Windows in the buildings high above him stood open, curtains fluttering in the breeze like white flags of surrender.  
  
Charlie moved rapidly to the shops had volunteered to place to quarantine notices in, barely giving each one a second glace until he came to the General Store. He moved quickly, placing the notice in the window before deciding to root through the store on his own for his home. He grabbed wooden boxes from behind the counter and methodically walked down the aisles, locating all the necessary previsions for this unexpected siege. He hauled the boxes out of the store two at a time and loaded them carefully into back of his truck.  
  
Yesterday evening over dinner, he and Sarah had discussed the alarming frequency the sickness was over taking the town and decided it was time for her to give up spending her days in the make-shift hospital. He felt guilty about making her come home from the infirmary, but he was sure their good fortune of not being effected was not to last. Sarah also knew she had done all she could, but still it was with a heavy heart she left the doctors and make-shift nurses to fend for themselves.  
  
It filled him with dread every time he thought about all those beds lined in rows, filled to capacity with sickened town people. He was bone-tired, so weary from worrying about his town, his friends and his family. He scrubbed his face with his hands, the rough stubble of hair grating against his palms. He closed his eyes for a moment, mentally shaking himself awake before entering the store again.  
  
The shopkeeper himself was one of the latest casualties of the flu, so there was no one to mind to the store as Charlie stocked up on provisions. He felt guilty about looting the store in his need, but he pushed it out of his mind, promising restitution as he swept back into the building to make his final rounds. He wasn't the only council member to have the same idea, right after he reentered the store, a few other men trailed after him, silently taking what they needed before heading to their homes or to the infirmary to check on loved ones.  
  
There was no need for words, each knowing there was nothing else left to say. This influenza caught the town and county so off-guard and Charlie could feel the fear coming off everyone not affected in waves, like a fecund odor silently creeping around the town and couldn't be placed and eradicated. Everyone was suspect; no one was sure how or why this plague attacked their town. The people who were not affected were frightened they would be next and they were shell-shocked by the amount of good friends and family they were losing at an alarming rate.  
  
The meeting to quarantine only took a few minutes of their time. They were all in agreement about what needed to be done for the health of themselves and their town. But knowing what needed to be done didn't help with the gaunt, haunted expressions on their faces as many of them dealt with numerable losses of family members overseas and now here, at home.  
  
Charlie was loading the last of the boxes into the truck when he saw someone sitting alone on the train platform at the other end of the street. He wasn't sure as he wasn't close enough, but it might have been Rose and he needed to check. Both he and Sarah agonized over Rose's decision to travel back home alone, even though they both understood her reasons for leaving. They were so afraid they would never see her again, as they both became attached to the young woman as if she were their daughter.  
  
As he drove his truck over to the train station, the sun came out from behind the clouds and their hair lit around their head like a fiery halo. He let of a sigh of thanksgiving as he recognized Rose's flaming red hair. If it wasn't for the halo, he wouldn't have recognized her in the drab gray traveling dress she wore.  
  
"Rose, honey?" he asked as opened the truck door. She was sitting on the bench silently, staring at her hands. "Rose, it's me, Charlie. Do you want me to take you home to Sarah?"  
  
Charlie blanched as she looked up. Her face was as white as death and her cheeks were flushed with fever. "Oh, no, sweetie, not you too." Rose covered her mouth and coughed, her entire upper body spasming as it shook from the force.  
  
Fear filled him as he watched her stand up unsteadily, grasping for her satchel alongside of her. "I lost my car, Charlie," she said weakly. "I had to leave it in Philadelphia. There was no one to crank the gas."  
  
Charlie pulled the mask back over his face and he ran up the steps to the platform just as Rose collapsed back onto the bench.  
  
"I don't feel very well," she said, moving to lay her head down on the wooden seat. "Everything hurts." She closed her eyes tightly, grimacing in pain as the dying sunlight upset her eyes and shot white hot spikes through her skull.  
  
"Here, let me help you," Charlie said as he gently picked Rose up in his arms. The heat radiating through her dress from her fevered body alarmed him. "I'll take you back to the house. Sarah will know what to do." Oh, lord, Charlie thought. Please let her know what to do.  
  
Rose's weight was slack in his arms and her head fell back as she slipped into unconsciousness. The long braid of her hair fell over his arm and swept against his legs as he walked. He prayed she would be okay, the thought of taking her to the infirmary never even crossing his mind. He opened the passenger side of the truck and gently placed her in the cab, his body tensing as he listened to her groan in pain. He shut the door as she began to cough again, running for the driver's side door.  
  
Charlie pushed the truck as fast as it could go on the return home, praying silently Rose would not die before he could get there. The truck skidded to a stop in front of the back porch of the house and he honked the horn repeatedly to alert Sarah.  
  
"Charlie? My word, what is it?" Sarah exclaimed, coming out onto the porch.  
  
"It's Rose, she's sick," Charlie said as he pulled gently pulled Rose's inert form through the driver's side door and into his arms. "It's the flu."  
  
"Oh, lord," Sarah's eyes widened in shock as she held the door open for Charlie. "Take her straight upstairs and put her to bed."  
  
Charlie nodded as he walked through the doorway.  
  
"Do you know how long she's been like this?" Sarah asked as she followed Charlie into the kitchen.  
  
"I don't know. I found her like this on the train platform. She said she had to leave the car in Philadelphia," Charlie said, his voice muffled behind the mask. "She must have taken the train back. Thank God she was able to get back before the quarantine went into effect. She must have been sitting there for hours."  
  
Sarah nodded as she hurried around the kitchen to make preparations, the sound of his footsteps up the back staircase echoing though the silent house. She pulled out a basin from under the sink and rushing to the pantry, she grabbed the container of distilled alcohol on the top shelf. She was muttering to herself, listing all the things she would need to nurse Rose's sickness.  
  
"What can I do to help?" Charlie said as he came back down the stairs. "I think she's sleeping now."  
  
"Out in the root cellar, I keep my medicines," Sarah winced as the alcohol bottle clattered against the enamel countertop. "You know the shelf where they are. Find the yellow jasmine tincture and bring it in," Sarah stopped, thinking for a moment. "Oh, the camphor, the horehound and the pine oil will help too. Bring those in too. The oil and the camphor will be in small clear glass bottles, everything is labeled and alphabetized. Then when you come back in, stoke up the fire on the stove and put the teakettle on."  
  
"Do you want the willow bark, too?"  
  
Sarah shook her head. "Not at this stage. It has the same ingredient as aspirin. I don't think the aspirin will help now, it may make it worse. You can bring it up though, once the danger has passed, we can use it." Sarah paused as the sounds of Rose's coughing reached her in the kitchen. She was moving on instinct, not trusting the all-purpose healing powers of the new drug recently released to the public.  
  
"When you're done with that, I'll you need to check on our supply of ice. Chip off quite a few pieces and place them in a bowl in the bottom of the icebox to keep cold. Lord knows when we'll get more, but we may need to use it if her fever gets too high."  
  
Sarah became meticulous as her recent nursing training and instincts for healing took over. She poured the distilled alcohol into the basin and reached on the shelf above the counter for the gauze masks she had prepared for use in the infirmary. Having a thought, she rushed out to the parlor for a few sheets of parchment paper. She returned to the kitchen, seeing Charlie standing, awaiting more instructions.  
  
"I'm pretty sure if I was going to catch this influenza, I would have already, but I'm not sure about you, my love. Dip your hands in the alcohol, dry them and then put on a fresh mask whenever you come into Rose's room. You'll dip your hands when you enter and then dip them again upon leaving. But I don't want you in there any more then necessary. Understood?" She smiled gently to lessen the sting of her words.  
  
Charlie nodded and embraced his wife. "I love you," he said, pulling the mask down as he bent and kissed her briefly. "I know you'll do everything you can to save her." Then he rushed out to complete Sarah's requests.  
  
Sarah stopped to grasp the back of the kitchen chair, kneading the wooden ladder slat and sighed, looking up towards the ceiling as Rose coughed again. She was frightened, but she knew it wouldn't help Charlie to see her fear. She took a deep breath and then pushed off the chair to pull down another bowl and placed it in the bottom of the sink. Pumping fresh water into the ceramic bowl, she reached for clean cloths in the kitchen drawer with her other hand to bath Rose's fevered forehead.  
  
A few minutes later, Charlie returned to the house with the sealed jar of yellow jasmine tincture, the gauze packet of horehound and the two vials filled with camphor and pine oil. He placed them on the counter and bent down in front of the wooden ice box, chipping ice off the large block in the bottom recess of the box.  
  
Sarah took a deep breath as she placed a tray on the table and loaded the two basins and cloths onto it. "Charlie, when you are done with the ice, please be a dear and don't forget about the stove and the fire. Place the teakettle on and throw in the horehound and tea leaves. We can strain the tea later, but it will need to steep for at least an hour or two. Then at least it will be ready if we need it."  
  
She picked up the tray and moved to walk up the stairs, but turned back in the kitchen, as she remembered something else to ask of Charlie. "Darling, I'll need three large saucepans filled with water and set to boil, too. If Rose's cough gets worse, or if she seems to be having trouble breathing, we'll need to construct a tent over her bed, and we'll use the steam from the boiling water for the pine oil and the camphor."  
  
"Maybe I should write a list," Charlie said as he picked up the extra piece of parchment paper from the table and rummaged through a kitchen drawer for a writing utensil.  
  
Sarah smiled faintly at him and turned to walk quickly up the stairs to Rose's room. She backed into the room, careful not to jar the tray against the doorjambs. Rose lay curled on her side like a child, breathing heavily through her open mouth. Her nose was raw, chapped and from the sounds of the light snores, obviously stuffed. Sarah placed the tray down on the bureau, lining the objects she needed in order of importance. She dipped her hands in the alcohol and dried them before placing her hand on Rose's head. Her fever was high, but not yet critical.  
  
Moving to the windows, she raised them a few inches to let some cool air sweep into the room. When she was done, she undressed the still sleeping Rose down to her shift and settled her under the covers, propping her shoulders up on the feather pillows.  
  
The compresses were placed in the cold water to soak and she wrung one compress out and placed it on Rose's fevered forehead. Then she picked up the parchment paper and rolled it into a tube. Sarah didn't have a stethoscope, but she knew this method would work almost as well. Rose groaned in her sleep and coughed, causing Sarah to hurry to her side to listen to her lungs. She picked up Rose's limp wrist, counting her pulse as she placed the heavy paper tube to her ear.  
  
Her pulse was thready, but still somewhat strong. Her breathing gave Sarah hope too because it wasn't yet watery, as was so many of the people who died from the secondary infection, pneumonia. If this was the second day of her sickness, maybe Sarah would be able to stop the infection from worsening with doses of the yellow jasmine and horehound tea.  
  
With all her time spent at the infirmary, she knew what the doctors and the nurses would have done to lessen Rose's symptoms. There wasn't anything she could do if she started to hemorrhage from the lungs, but she prayed it wouldn't go that far.  
  
Sarah had seen some instances when the first few cases of influenza were brought into the infirmary where the yellow jasmine had worked, but it was in such short supply, they weren't able to keep up with the demand of all the new patients who were brought in everyday and they had quickly run out. Sarah had struggled with the idea of giving up her tincture to the infirmary, made from the root she purchased on a whim during a trip to a Chicago apothecary this past summer. She had made the tincture when the infection began to spread into the surrounding towns for fear she would need to use it at home. Now she knew she had made the right decision.  
  
She sent the heavens a silent thank you for her grandmother, who entrusted her with the knowledge of botanicals and their many uses.  
  
Sarah spent the next hour by Rose's side, only venturing back downstairs for the tincture, fresh compresses and to check on Charlie and the steeping horehound. When Rose coughed herself awake right after dark, Sarah could see her shoulders bracing against the force of it and she placed her hand gently on Rose's back, feeling a fine constant tremor running through her from back muscles forced to spasm with every cough. The air rattled noisily in her chest with every breathe she took.  
  
Sarah turned up the flame in the lamp by her bedside, smiling gently as she laid her hand on Rose's forehead. Her appearance alarmed Sarah more than she wanted to let on. Her face was so pale and her lips were white, her nose was red rimmed and oozing fluid. The fragile skin under her dark blue eyes was bruised a purplish black from fatigue.  
  
"Hi honey," Sarah whispered as she sat down beside her on the bed.  
  
"Hi," Rose croaked, her throat moving painfully. She brought her hand up to her neck as she grimaced with pain.  
  
"Don't try and talk yet, okay?"  
  
Rose nodded, coughed and then sneezed explosively. Sarah handed her a linen handkerchief to wipe the mucous from her nose.  
  
"We are going to try a few things, honey, to make you better. Do you think you're up to swallowing some liquid?"  
  
At Rose's nod, Sarah stood and poured out a teaspoon of her tincture. Rose swallowed it painfully, grimacing from the sting of her sore throat and also from the bitter taste. Sarah gently brought a glass of ice water to her lips and Rose sipped the water slowly, savoring it, allowing it to trickle down as it soothed her raw throat. She handed the glass to Sarah and coughed again.  
  
Rose blew her nose into the handkerchief and tried to clear her clogged throat. "Am I going to die?" .  
  
"Oh, honey," Sarah said as she sat back down beside her. "Not if I have any say in it. Do you hear me?"  
  
Rose nodded weakly, feeling so horrible, not sure if she minded death coming to call. She coughed as she settled into the pillows.  
  
"I'm glad you found your way back here."  
  
Rose smiled weakly and looked down at the handkerchief clasped in her hand. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."  
  
"Were you able to find your mother?" Sarah asked as she smoothed Rose's hair back from her forehead.  
  
Rose nodded and looked away from Sarah to the window alongside her bed.  
  
"It was a dreadful there," Rose whispered, pausing to cough once again. "The town seemed dead, everything was closed up and deserted. I've never in my life seen Philadelphia that way. The people I saw seemed catatonic from shock and my mother was sick – is sick with influenza," Rose paused to cough and to swallow painfully.  
  
"I don't know if she'll recover," Rose whispered as wet tears slid down Rose's cheeks and splattered against her shift as terrible regrets assailed her. "I didn't realize how much I missed her until I was faced with the realization she never wants to see me again."  
  
Rose closed her eyes, feeling utterly miserable from influenza and from the loss of her mother.  
  
"You don't have to talk about it Rose, if it will pain you to do so," Sarah said quietly as she grasped Rose's hand in her own.  
  
"I know," Rose said as she squeezed Sarah's hand gently. She closed her eyes and began to whisper again.  
  
"I can't say I blame her for reacting the way she did. I don't know what I would have done differently if our positions were reversed. I don't think I should have gone back," Rose stopped and shrugged her shoulders. "She still loves me," Rose paused to cough once more. "At least I will always have that to remember her by."  
  
Rose blinked, feeling suddenly light-headed. Her head was pounding as if someone were repeatedly using her skull as an anvil. She closed her eyes and the blackness exploded in white lights behind her closed lids. She was so tired and she took a shallow breath, struggling not to cough.  
  
"I think I should try to sleep for awhile."  
  
"That's a wonderful idea. I won't be far if you need me," Sarah said as she squeezed Rose's hand once more and stood up from the bed. Rose looked up at her, smiling weakly.  
  
Rose closed her eyes as Sarah turned the lamp down low and moved out of the room. Her entire body ached and she was alternating between shivering and feeling too warm. She needed to sleep as she hoped she would be able to rest as her body continued to betray by coughing her awake every time she would slip into slumber.  
  
She finally fell into restless lurid dreams of no meaning, finding herself driving alone down endless roads with white naked figures jumping in and out behind from behind the trees lining the road  
  
As she approached a crossroads, the dream suddenly shifted and she was standing by the railing of a wooden Man o' War on a storm lashed sea. A wave overtook the deck and she was swept into the heaving water. She saw her father briefly in the middle of the maelstrom, standing above the waves, smiling down at her as she fought for her life. But he vanished as she screamed his name, reaching for him as saltwater filled her open mouth. Drowning, she slipped under the black water as the nightmare shifted abruptly and she found herself in her old primary school back in Philadelphia.  
  
The slate blackboard she was standing in front of was smeared with white chalk and nonsense words she couldn't understand. In her dream state, she knew she was being punished for something she'd done by having to clean the blackboard. She reached down into the bucket next to her, eyes on the board, her lips moving as she tried to read the words. As she came up with the sponge to wipe the blackboard, she dropped it in revulsion as a warm viscous fluid dripped down her arm from the soaked sponge. Gasping, she looked down into the blood filled bucket and turned towards the classroom and found the wooden desks arranged in a circle. Grinning skeletons stared back at her from the desks in the darkened classroom. She could hear their bones clicking as they shifted positions in their seats. Rose's mouth opened in closed in fear and astonishment.  
  
In the center of the room stood a black rabbit the size of a man. He knelt down and scratched a Hopscotch grid onto the wooden boards with a knife and asked her to play. A purple kangaroo stood nearby, watching her as he tossed a skull from one paw to the other. Rose cried out, running from the room and into her old bedroom at the Bukater mansion.  
  
The room looked exactly as she left it a few days before, except on the edge of the bed sat Caledon Hockley.  
  
"Hello Rose. I've missed you so," he said tauntingly, smiling at her cruelly as he leapt from the bed towards her, attempting to grab her. Rose pulled her arm free from his iron grasp and fled the room, with him thundering after her. In her heart, she knew if she was caught he would kill her. Panicked, she could hear herself whimpering as she ran down the hallway towards the stairs and freedom.  
  
At the top of the stairs, all the lights in the house went out. Blind, she screamed as she lost her footing on the top step and tumbled down the stairs. Landing ungraciously at the bottom, she took stock of her body, noticing she was miraculously unhurt.  
  
"Where are you, Rose? Have you missed the touch of my hands on your body? I've waited for this moment for so long, I can't wait to feel the soft skin on your neck as I slowly strangle the life out of you," Cal said in the darkness, his voice becoming more menacing as the sounds of his footsteps echoed above stairs. "I'm coming for you," Cal called from the hallway above and when he laughed, Rose felt a chill run down her spine.  
  
A dim flickering light was illuminating her body as she sat up at the bottom of the steps. It distracted her from the fear of Cal and realized briefly he had disappeared as a deep keening noise came from the parlor. She stood and quietly walked towards the light and the pocket doors. Opening them silently, she peeked around the corner, her eyes widening by the amount of candles and candelabras flickering with flame on every flat surface of the room. The overwhelming scent of flowers washed over her, large bouquets of white orchids and gardenias surrounding the standing figures in the front of the room.  
  
Her father held her mother tightly as Ruth cried into his chest, unable to look at the coffin in front of them, sitting in front of the large picture window. Rose walked through the room, invisible to the grieving people lined up in chairs all around her.  
  
A minister stood up and started to speak, but like the words on the blackboard, Rose couldn't understand the language he was speaking. Approaching the open coffin without disturbing the service, she gasped and cried out, tears instantly forming and spilling down her cheeks.  
  
It was she who lay in the coffin, white in death, her long red hair wet and tangled against her breasts. Rose was wearing the pink dress she wore when Titanic sank. The only make up on her face was a slash of red lipstick as bright as blood. Her hands were folded gently over stomach in a parody of sleep. Her mother's sobs grew louder and Rose turned back to her parents, suddenly realizing she died the night Titanic sank. Her body was recovered from the wooden plank she lay on and she was here in the middle of her funeral service. Was everything that happened to her after she left the Carpathia and entered New York some strange type of purgatory while she awaited judgment?  
  
She frantically waved her hands in front of her parent's faces, trying to let them know she was there standing in front of them. "No!" She screamed as she realized they couldn't see or hear her.  
  
She stood helplessly by; tears streaming down her face as her father leaned down to kiss her good-bye and closed the coffin with a resounding thunk.  
  
Rose awakened explosively as Sarah and Charlie were building a tent over her bed of quilts and she struggled briefly, mistaking them in her fear for her parents who were preparing her for burial in her nightmare. "I'm so scared, I can't be dead," Rose whimpered. "I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die yet."  
  
Sarah calmed her down by pulling Rose into her arms, rocking and crooning to her as if she were a small child. Rose pulled in a penetrating breath of camphor and pine oil and she allowed herself to be soothed back down into unconsciousness.  
  
Sarah awakened her a little while later to administer another dose of the tincture. Rose has lost all sense of time, entombed in the darkness of quilts so she wasn't sure how much had passed, be it hours or days. Her chest felt lighter, as the steam and camphor loosened the phlegm in her chest. She coughed it up freely and spat into the basin Sarah offered.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Sarah asked, glancing down in the basin, checking for blood. Satisfied by what she saw, she placed the bowl on the dresser outside of the tent. In the dim light coming through the quilts, Rose could see her clothing was damp and wrinkled from the steam. Her hair was falling out of her always perfect bun and stray hairs were tucked behind her ears and away from her face.  
  
"I think I feel better." Rose croaked and cleared her throat. "Could I have some water?"  
  
Sarah ducked under the side of the tent again and came back a moment later with a glass of ice water. "You frightened us something fierce last night. I was afraid we were going to have to douse you in a tub of ice water, your fever went so high."  
  
Rose sipped the water gratefully, realizing she was sweating profusely. "Did my fever break?" She whispered.  
  
Sarah smiled slightly. "It would seem so. It may be a good idea to keep you in the tent for a little while longer. You'll breathe much easier in here."  
  
"What time is it?" Rose asked.  
  
"Almost lunch time. We made it through the night. Poor Charlie is sound asleep on the sofa in the parlor; his body gave up a little past dawn."  
  
"You should sleep for awhile, Sarah. Thank you for everything you're doing for me. I don't think I would have made it this far without you."  
  
Sarah patted her hand. "We're not out of the woods yet, sweetheart. This influenza is a wicked little bug, so you may relapse at any time. You would feel even worse if you develop pneumonia."  
  
Rose understood all too well the hidden meaning behind her words. If she relapsed again, or if the influenza developed into pneumonia there might not be anything Sarah could do help her. She could very easily become another statistic of the horrifying number of people who were succumbing to the influenza at an alarming rate.  
  
"Besides," Sarah continued. "I moved a chair under the tent next to your bed and I'll stay to watch over you. Someone needs to refresh the water in the basins when they start to cool." She smiled gently and handed Rose the water glass again.  
  
"How much longer?" Rose coughed as she asked. "How much longer until I'm out of danger of this turning into pneumonia?" She placed the glass on the bedside table.  
  
"I don't know. I would say at least another three or four days to be on the safe side."  
  
"But you're not afraid to be here with me?" Rose asked as she kicked the covers off of her legs and feet. Her skin felt as if it were crawling with ants, she was so hot and sweaty.  
  
"No," Sarah said as she sat back down in the chair. "I told Charlie the same thing. For some reason I can't explain, I've been exposed to this bug for over a week and a half now and I haven't even had a sniffle." Sarah was surprised to feel her eyes welling with tears.  
  
Rose leaned her head back against the pillow and coughed. "How bad is it here? How many people have died?"  
  
Sarah choked off a sob as the emotions she had been so careful to keep hidden broke the surface and swelled. "So many, Rose. Too many."  
  
Her throat closed up briefly as she tried to keep dam the flood which threatened to break free. "I'm so worried about Charlie," Sarah's head fell into her hands and she sobbed quietly. "I can't lose him. But I can't seem to protect him from it either, which makes me feel so helpless." Sarah stood up and left the tent briefly and came back in a moment later with a lace handkerchief clutched in her hand.  
  
"There's so much death here, Rose. I don't know how I can cope." She grasped the arms of the chair and bowed her head.  
  
"I know," Rose whispered.  
  
"When the telegram arrived that morning, I knew something was wrong because they knocked on the front door. No one ever uses the front door," Sarah paused to wipe her tears.  
  
"I saw the uniforms and the expressions on their faces and I knew one or both of my sons were dead. When they handed me the notice and told me how sorry they were, I sank to my knees on the front porch and wished I were dead too. My heart was breaking and I had no one to turn to."  
  
Sarah stopped and pressed both hands over her eyes as if they burned with weariness.  
  
Rose started to cry, remembering and feeling ashamed Sarah was here all alone when the news was delivered. When she came home from flying that evening, she knew something was wrong because the house felt dead. Charlie sat at the kitchen table, staring at his hands, his face stained with tears. Sarah was given a dose of laudanum by the family doctor and was sleeping fitfully upstairs. Rose embraced Charlie briefly, before he broke away from her and left for the hangar. All night she sat at the table, not sure what to do, her heart breaking for her surrogate parents and the brother she never knew.  
  
"But as much as I wanted to die, I couldn't. I had you and Charlie to take care of. Doug was still alive somewhere over in Europe. I couldn't die, but I won't lie to you, when the flu broke out here, I went to nurse the sick, not caring if I caught the flu and died too," Sarah took Rose's extended hand and squeezed.  
  
Sarah sobbed and Rose cried right along with her. Rose had experienced every emotion Sarah was suffering from right now. She knew all Sarah needed from her was to listen.  
  
Sarah handed Rose the horehound tea and Rose grimaced at the smell and taste, but she sipped it dutifully.  
  
Sarah cleared her throat and wiped her eyes and took a deep breath punctuated with several uneven breaths.  
  
"I can't let you die, Rose," Sarah said, her voice filled with determination. "I can't lose you too. I refuse to let you go. You're going to live, damn it. I promise."  
  



	13. Armistice Day

It was snowing on the eleventh day of November in 1918.  
  
Great big flakes of cotton drifted down from the low sky and gathered in a blanket of white on the cold, barren soil. Doug Calvert sat on a gasoline drum outside of the hangar; smoking a cigarette and watching his friends play a game of American football in the mess of mud and snow on the ground. He exhaled lightly; the remnants of the tobacco smoke mixing with the misty vapor of his breath. Darkness was falling, filling the field with shadows and muted light, the gray clouds hanging low in the sky. As always, when he watched his friends and comrades at war and at play, his thoughts swept back to his brother and what could have been.  
  
The war had made him bitter and resentful, but time was forcing his raw wounds to heal. Every day that passed he found his smiles becoming easier, his laughter not as forced as before. He was healing, slowly. His memories of the time right after his brother's death were becoming stark, black and white photographs in his mind. They were tough and relentless, unpredictable yet hypnotic and would remain unforgettable.  
  
When he thought of Rob, as he did often, he was no longer haunted by the vision of the mangled aircraft, or his brother's body covered with wildflowers. He instead brought to mind the laughter, the smiles and the good-natured fights of their youth. He remembered his brother in his uniform on the day they left, so young and full of life, serene and unblemished as they kissed their mother good-by as their train was leaving the station for Camp Dix and basic training.  
  
Ah, but that seemed like a lifetime ago.  
  
When the shadows lengthened and the sky grew dark, the football players gave up their game and started for the mess hall. Owen walked over to Doug and stopped, resting his hands on knees to catch his breath.  
  
"You make a habit of smoking on objects that can explode without warning?"  
  
"Every chance I get." Doug countered as he kicked the drum with his heel lightly; smiling as the hollow ringing announced it was empty.  
  
"You should have joined in, then maybe they wouldn't have kicked our ass."  
  
"I thought about it." Doug flicked his cigarette into the darkness.  
  
Owen nodded and straightened, stretching the muscles in him back. "Jesus, I'm getting old," he grumbled. "Give me a cig, will you?"  
  
Doug pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and tossed them to Owen, who took it and shook one out for himself. All he seemed to do in this foreign country was sleep, smoke and fly. He lit the cigarette with the match Owen offered and inhaled the hot smoke into his lungs, feeling them tighten from the intrusion.  
  
Owen coughed as he exhaled. "Christ, if they don't kill us in battle, these things will."  
  
"That's the plan. Why do you think they give us cartons like they're candy?"  
  
Owen chuckled as he sat down next to Doug and the two smoked in the comfortable silence. "They say were going home soon." Owen quietly said, his breath stretching out in front of him in a ghostly trail.  
  
Doug grunted. "Home. Where's that? I've been here so long; I forget what my bed feels like. I forget what it feels like to wake up and not have to worry about being shot down. I can't remember playing footballs without the thought the guys I played with might be dead tomorrow. Where the hell is home? Can you tell me? I don't know anymore. Do you remember home?"  
  
Owen nodded. He was used to this pessimistic side of Doug. "Sometimes, when I least expect it. When I'm in the middle of a dogfight and I should be concentrating on not getting my ass shot down. It's then the smell of my mother's sachet fills my senses or I remember how soft Evelyn's hair feels in my hands and I feel sick to my stomach from homesickness. But I know what you're talking about, this place has become home and these guys have become our family and that scares the shit out of me. Jeez, how long have we been here? It feels like a lifetime."  
  
"Exactly." Doug inhaled on his cigarette. "This place, these battles in the air that we've fought, they've changed me. Changed me so much I'm scared I don't even know myself anymore. I guess I'm afraid that if I don't know myself, how can I expect my mother or Charlie or anyone who hasn't been through the war to understand."  
  
Owen sighed and leaned back on an elbow as he took a deep drag from his cigarette. "I know where you're coming from. How much should I tell Evie about what I've seen and done? I'm afraid if she knew the truth she would never want to speak to me again."  
  
Doug nodded soberly as he stared down at the glowing ember of his cigarette. "Do you have any idea how many men have been killed just this month in the trenches? The number is staggering. Sometimes I think I have no excuse for sitting here and complaining about how I fought this war in the air while enlisted men are huddling in terror and confusion in the bottom of a foxhole. This wasn't a war; it was an abomination." He scratched the back of his head with one hand. "Every time I shoot a plane down, the further away from home I feel and all I know is if I survive this war and never have to fly again, I won't miss it."  
  
Owen looked up sharply. "What?"  
  
"I mean it, Owe. I don't think I'm going to continue the airfield when we return. I just don't have the heart for it anymore."  
  
"What are you going to do?"  
  
Doug stepped down from the barrel and dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. He turned and stared out west towards the last remaining shreds of daylight. "I don't know. I honestly have no idea. I'm not like you; I don't have a girl waiting for me at home. Maybe if I did, I would feel differently. All I'll have when I leave here is regret and memories. I don't think I can return home and go on with my life as it was before I left. I'm no longer that person. Do you know what I mean?"  
  
"Of course I know." Owen said irritably as the cynicism of Doug's speech grated on his nerves. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but you're not the only person who fought this war. Everybody in this place has lost somebody, a father, a brother, a cousin, or a friend. You're not the only person who is going to return to the States different from when they arrived. Don't make yourself a martyr, Doug. It doesn't suit you."  
  
Doug nodded his head silently as he continued to stare towards the horizon.  
  
Owen stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. He wiped the snow off of the seat of his pants and turned towards his friend. "Christ man, I'm sorry."  
  
"No, don't be. You're right."  
  
"How about we go inside, I'm freezing. I say we not worry about going home until we get the official word. For all we know, we might still be here for awhile. Let's go get something to eat before there's nothing left. I'm starving."  
  
"Good idea."  
  
The mess was always rowdy in the early evenings, as the returning pilots were anxious to speak of their day. But tonight a feeling of apprehension ran through the ranks of men sitting at the long tables. Doug wound his way through the food line, his shoulders and back rigid as a board. He grumbled as he placed the last of few rolls onto his plate and picked up his dinner tray and made his way towards Owen, who beckoned him to the seat beside him.  
  
"Look, I became lost and I landed on the first field I saw. You'd do the same thing, right?"  
  
Doug sat down next to Owen, who was listening to Major Kirby recount his sensational victory only days before.  
  
"I was tired, the plane needed to be fixed, so I didn't even think about telephoning the Aerodrome to let them know I was OK. I did the repairs necessary and fell asleep in the cockpit of my machine. How was I to know the fog would roll in?"  
  
Kirby grabbed a roll off of Doug's tray and motioned to Doug sitting silently before him. "You know how it is. Some days you fly in the air and not a single thing happens. Then, WHAM! Next thing you know, you're clearing the fog and flying over Etain. I almost shit my pants when what do I see coming out of the fog alongside me but a Fokker! I swear to God he was just as surprised to see me as I was of him. So what did I do? I almost waved to the sucker!"  
  
The men at the table broke into laughter. "But then the next thing I knew, he was diving toward the ground. So I piqued my tail, and followed him down, strafing him all the way. Jesus, we must have been only fifty feet above the ground." He snorted. "Could I have known he was going to crash into the ground? Uh, no. If I had delayed two more seconds, my plane would have wrecked right on top of his. At the last minute," Kirby took a bite of the roll, "I was able to pull the stick up and fly to safety. I'm tellin' ya; I scared him to death. Honest."  
  
By the time Kirby was done telling his story, all of the men at the table were listening to him enraptured. The strange vibes that Doug picked up on when he entered the mess intensified. Only a few of the men were talking, it was if as a unit, they could sense something was about to happen.  
  
Owen looked up sharply at the ringing of the telephone and nudged Doug with his elbow. Doug pushed his tray away and watched Rickenbacker pick up the phone and cradle it to his ear. A hush gathered over the hall as Eddie dropped the phone and turned towards the group.  
  
Every muscle in Doug's body tensed as he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He looked at Owen as he realized everyone in the room felt the same way. Not a sound was heard, not an eye blinked. It was if every person in the room was holding his breath, one of those peculiar moments when every instinct shouts that something monumental is going to happen.  
  
In the midst of the uncanny silence the loud boom of the Arch battery thundered outside. Suddenly, pandemonium broke out as everyone jumped up at once. The men were shouting and tumbling over one another in their excitement, anxious to be out the door and celebrating.  
  
Doug sat silently for a moment, staring down at his hands. It was officially over. He realized this, he knew it deep in his heart, but what would he do with himself once the war was over?  
  
"Doug?" He looked up to see Owen in the doorway. "Come on outside. There's nothing here for you now." Doug nodded and stood up, feeling his mouth curl up at the corners.  
  
The sky over the Aerodrome and in every direction they faced was aglow and shivering from the bursts of fire. Searchlights from other aerodromes were frolicking frantically across the heavens, illuminating through the clouds and softening to dimness the thousands of colored lights, which exploded in every conceivable direction. From all around came the shrill yells of festivity that were punctuated with the fierce rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of machineguns that rang all across the countryside. Roars of laughter and whoops of joy came floating on the wind from the sleeping quarters beside the hangar.  
  
As sudden as the snow clouds formed that day, the wind of the evening pushed them east, allowing the stars to shine brightly overhead. Doug watched silently as sometimes even the heavens were hidden by the thousands of rounds of ammunition that exploded, releasing various colored lights, that floated softly towards the earth until they withered away to nothingness.  
  
Everybody was laughing, whooping, firing guns into the sky, punch drunk with the realization they were alive and going home. I'm going home, Doug thought to himself as he stared at the spectacle in the sky. From the corner of his eye he saw Rickenbacker helping a few of his pilots roll barrels of gasoline through the mud. I'm finally going home. Doug threw back his head and laughed as he walked over to give Rickenbacker a helping hand.  
  
Once the pyre was high enough, Rickenbacker struck a match and threw it upon the barrels. The flames whooshed to the heavens and enveloped the joyous men in its bright orange light and welcomed warmth. Doug stood watching the dancing ring of crazy lunatics which circled the blazing fire, listening to the similar howling of other rings as they formed. Bonfires burned voraciously other barrels of gasoline that would never again allow fighting aeroplanes to fly over enemy lines.  
  
Doug watched in wonder as one lone soldier pirouetted madly on the outside of the bedlam. "I've lived through the war!" He repeated to himself over and over as he spun frantically in the mud.  
  
A great silence descended upon Doug as he turned to stare at the men, deafening the cries of joy and the booms of the artillery cannons to a dull roar. All he could hear was his blood pounding in his ears. He watched in eerie slow motion as another bonfire was lit, its fireball bursting and lighting the clouds with orange and red fury high above. It was a moment of perfect clarity, a moment of epiphany. His vision became blurred as he realized tears stung his eyes.  
  
He never had to fly again. His arms shot over his head, whooping with elation as his hearing returned. No matter what road life lead him down when he returned home, he was thankful he would never again be required to climb inside of the cockpit of an airplane and fly.  
  
The flying machine that filled his dreams as a child, in war became the object that filled him with complete and utter loathing. Never again would he have to climb into the cockpit of an airplane and shoot down enemy aircraft. Never again would he have to feel the burn or adrenaline rush of the kill. Never again would he awake fearing this day would be his last. He had fulfilled his promise to his brother to complete his missions with honor and tact and now he was free.  
  
His whoop of joy became the cry of salvation. He was going home. 


	14. A Chance Encounter

A Chance Encounter  
  
Early December, 1918  
  
It was a cold, bitter night on the beach in Atlantic City.  
  
Only a few souls with upraised collars and gloves braved the frozen wind that swept in from off the ocean. Rose's boots squished in the sand as she hitched her skirt over her calves, making her way to the line of boulders pointing towards the sea like a finger to the horizon. Her breath blew before her like a misty flag as she walked towards the jetty.  
  
It was if an invisible hand was pulling her towards the ocean, drawing her to the black churning water. The clear white stars shone brightly down upon her in the ebony night sky, masking in the distance where the sea stopped and the sky began. The sickle shaped moon hung low, pale white light shimmering like discarded diamonds in a jagged line across the ever moving surface of water. She climbed the low rocks easily in the moonlight, nimbly walking along them as she made her way to the end of the ledge.  
  
Rose stood like a lone sentry at the end of the quay and she cocked her head towards the sound of the crashing waves. Her hair billowed out behind her, a dark, rippling flag in the wind as she pulled her leather flying coat closer around her body. Her dinner dress clung to her legs, whipping and snapping as the wind fought to flow through her towards the shore. The tide was rising; the waves collided against the rocks in an angry attempt to dislodge them from the water's path. Rose was so deep in thought the spray from the waves was easily ignored.  
  
Only for Sarah and the return of Doug Calvert would she have come back east. The influenza that had taken so many lives had nearly taken hers only two months before. It was the stubbornness of Sarah and her homeopathic medicine that kept her alive when her body threatened to betray her by succumbing to the illness. Even now, almost two months later, Rose still did not feel like herself. She tired easily and the shadows under her eyes had yet to fade from view.  
  
Not comfortable with the idea of waiting for her son to return to Illinois on his own, Sarah decided they must meet him in New Jersey after his debriefing was over at Camp Dix. In two days Douglas Calvert would be arriving by train in Atlantic City to reunite with his family and spend a few days of resting and relaxing before returning to the farm to begin a much needed hiatus from the military.  
  
Rose tried valiantly to beg off, believing it should be a family only event. She pleaded her own recovering health, but Sarah would not hear a word of protest. She packed Rose's suitcase and had her out the door and on their way to the train station, leaving Rose just enough time to grab her satchel and warm winter coat.  
  
But if she had not returned east and to this city, she would have never learned of Ruth Bukater's death.  
  
Just this afternoon as she and Sarah strolled down the wooden boards of the nearly deserted Boardwalk she spotted a newsboy hawking the Philadelphia Inquirer and on a whim purchased one. She had waited until after dinner when she returned to her room to sit down with a cup of hot tea to peruse the pages for news of her hometown. When she spotted the obituary, tucked in small print towards the back of the paper, she felt the blood run from her face in icy disbelief. She sat back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair distractedly, pulling pins and releasing the long curls. The funeral had been three days before and Ruth was to be interred by her memorial, next to her father.  
  
Unsure of her feelings, she walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside, staring out over the dark ocean in the distance.  
  
She was too restless to remain in her room, knowing sleep would elude her tonight. So she pulled on her gloves and coat without a second thought, walking out of the hotel without knowing the time. She roamed the boards for hours, walking up and down the strip as memories and conversations swirled through her mind. Just before she decided it was time to return, she stared at the water for a moment, spotting the jetty in the distance. Without a second thought, she walked towards it, with only the intention of standing on the end, near the beach.  
  
But in her grief, she had pushed herself farther out on the jetty than she thought possible. It was part therapy, possibly part masochism, because she hoped each step forward on the rocks would be a cathartic experience, purging her of the fear she felt for the massive body of water. She knew deep in her heart there was nothing to stop the sea from rising over the flat beach and carrying the boardwalk and all the storefronts away, dragging them back to the deep, for she had seen its destructive power on a calm night. This ocean awakened in her a terrifying sense of awe and awareness of its ever changing moods and irresistible power.  
  
In her hand she clutched the obituary torn hastily from the newspaper as her memories of the last night with her mother swelled and stretched between relief and longing, as she finally understood what it meant to be alone. Although she had left her mother's protection so many years before, always was the thought in the back of her mind that maybe, possibly, one day, if she needed to, she could return home.  
  
"I hope you find peace, Mother," she whispered to the wind as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. It was if the small tangible tie she felt with her mother was severed this night as easily as a rope pulled taut until it was stretched beyond its limits, snapping from the strain.  
  
So here she stood, on the very last rock; where she could say good-bye to her mother in peace, never forgetting for one moment somewhere out on the ocean floor lay her childhood dreams and a fleeting love, alone and bitterly cold.  
  
Would the temperature of the water in December be any different from that night so long ago? Would it still feel like a million shards of glass assaulting her body all at once?  
  
How easy it was to imagine the water as a haunted entity, as it had been the cause of mass destruction and heartbreak since the beginning of time.  
  
When she was a child, she never feared ghosts and it seemed the lack of fear served a purpose now as she lived with them everyday. When she stared into a mirror, she would forever see traces of her mother staring back at her. She smiled her father's smile, brushed her hair back with hands inherited from her grandmother, not to mention the other ghosts from the ship of dreams who visited her from time to time.  
  
She stood stoically silent as she pulled her hair from her face and stared down the angry waters. She lifted her face to the light mist from the waves and sighed. The tide was rapidly coming in; she would have to return to the hotel soon.  
  
Rose the aviatrix was becoming restless, the need to move on becoming stronger with every passing day. Oh, how she would miss the Adlers, whom she had come to love as foster parents. But flying was what she would miss the most, the exhilaration that pulsed through her body in waves as she flew above the horizon and danced along the clouds. She knew she would always be welcome at the airfield, but as the men returned from war, she would not have the opportunity to fly with as much frequency as she was used to. They would reclaim their planes, their mail-routes and Rose would be grounded and left behind as she watched them soar above.  
  
There was still the matter of the promise to Jack to make every day count, as well. Her life was stretched out in front of her, a half empty book, and it was up to her to fill in the pages.  
  
She still missed Jack, for he remained a part of her life -- not a day passed without some small thought of him. The sorrow was less overwhelming now though - she no longer allowed it to affect her with the burning intensity of before.  
  
Her mother's spoken words about loss and grieving had preoccupied her thoughts for weeks on end, as yes, seven years was a long time to mourn someone. And although she refused to completely say good-bye to her past, she was no longer awakened from her nightmares with the regularity of the first few years after Titanic slipped beneath the ocean.  
  
What was it about Jack and their short time together she would not allow herself to forget? Was it because he saved her life? It was almost as if she was afraid she would betray him and his memory if she did allow herself to fully move on. Was her mother correct in saying the relationship never would have lasted?  
  
Well, Mother, she thought silently, I'll never have the chance to find out if your prediction would come true.  
  
If she and Jack had never met, if they had remained strangers aboard the massive ship, separated by their classes, would he have survived the wreckage? Even now, so many years later, she knew the odds of him surviving without her assistance were slim. Sometimes when she had lain awake unable to sleep she was haunted by guilt born of the possibility if Jack had never met her, he would have survived. Morose thoughts ran through her head about the choices that she had made as she held her head in her hands, listening to crash of the waves on the rocks.  
  
"Good-bye, Mother," she said at last as she slowly tore the newspaper to shreds and let the wind offer the remnants to the sea. With one long final look, she set out to turn the page on that forlorn chapter of the past, the churning sea and the wreckage of Titanic.  
  
"Don't jump. However bad it may seem right now, Miss, for God's sake, please don't jump!"  
  
Rose leapt out of her skin in fear as she whipped her head around to look behind her; certain she was hearing another ghost from her past.  
  
"What!?" She exclaimed to the very real, very tall stranger standing a few feet behind her, "that's absurd. I have no intention of committing suicide."  
  
"Then why are you standing on these rocks above the ocean on a in the middle of the night?" The stranger asked as he held his hand out to her. "Here, take my hand; and we'll walk back to the boardwalk together."  
  
Oh, this cannot be happening, Rose thought to herself as she gazed at her savior, lips twitching as she struggled to contain a wry smile. Tonight of all nights, standing here alone surrounded by her thoughts of Titanic, she encountered another man who thought she needed saving from herself. Twice in her lifetime was too much for her to take, especially after fighting so hard for her life during her severe bout of influenza a few months before.  
  
She was finding it difficult to get a good look at her Samaritan in the moonlight; however she could tell he was several inches taller than she was and well-made. His hat leaned jauntily to the side, lending him a rakish air.  
  
"What were you thinking sneaking up on me like that," she admonished him. "I said I'm not going to jump. Now, please go away and leave me be." Rose said as she turned back towards the water. She sighed with impatience, looking over her shoulder to see him still standing there realizing she was going to have to wait for the stranger to leave before she could follow him back to the safety of the boardwalk and the warmth of her room. She didn't want to be rude; she just wanted to be alone.  
  
The stranger lowered his waiting hand, as the young woman quirked an eyebrow up as she watched him over her shoulder. He placed both of them in the pockets of his long wool overcoat and shrugged his wide shoulders.  
  
"Miss, please, help an old man out here. Just take my hand and allow me to lead you back to the boardwalk. I've just returned from overseas two days ago, spending a week on an overcrowded boat and I've been on a cramped train for the last three hours. I'm tired. I'd really like to go to my room and slip into a coma for the next few days."  
  
Was he speaking to her as if she were a child? Rose turned around, letting out a small gasp of surprise as she lost her footing. The stranger reached out to her as she righted herself, but she waved his hands away and then placed them on her hips as she confronted him.  
  
"Oh, you must be joking with me. I'm fine. Honestly. You can go. Go to your hotel, crawl beneath your covers and sleep. I have no intention of throwing myself bodily into that freezing water," she pointed down into the darkness. She showed her disbelief in the tone of her voice as she addressed him with disdain.  
  
"I was only saying good-bye to something," she stifled the urge to tell him to shoo.  
  
"Please, Miss, I'll sleep much better tonight if you'll just come back –"  
  
His words were cut off as a massive crushing wave slammed over the jetty and Rose found herself thrown off balance by the force and the extreme iciness of the water. Her body was sent hurtling towards the stranger, her outstretched fingers brushing his open arms as he struggled to grasp a hold of her hands. A short scream escaped her as her booted feet lost their footing on the slippery, wet rocks. She swallowed the sob in her throat, looking up at the stranger in desperation as she began to plummet over the side of the jetty. An intense feeling of vertigo washed over her as another wave crashed deafeningly against the rocks, thundering with the intention of sweeping them both into the sea.  
  
Her hand met his, fumbling for grip and then slipped, finally connecting just as Rose was about tumble into the rushing water. The stranger had fallen to his knees as he struggled to keep her hand tightly in his grasp.  
  
"I've got your hand. I won't let go," the stranger shouted over the roar of the surf. "Give me your other one. You can do it, I can't do it alone. You'll have to help me!"  
  
Rose sobbed both in fear and remembrance of the last time she found herself in an eerily similar predicament. The rocks on the jetty were as slippery as oiled leather as Rose tried frantically to find a toehold to shove her boot into. She grabbed his other hand, holding on for dear life as panic ran through her. She arched her body backwards, struggling to keep her balance and her hands from sliding out of his. Hysteria was rising in her chest as her breath struggled to be released from her constricting lungs.  
  
"Help me!" she cried as more waves broke over the quay, threatening to pitch both of them into the foaming sea. Rose screamed in fear as a terror she had only known once before welled in her throat. "Please! I can't go back in there, don't let it take me again!"  
  
The stranger pulled on her hands with all of his might until he was able to snake one arm around her waist and drag her back to towards the center of rocks. Rose landed on top of him, both of them losing their breath from the impact. She rested her head on his chest, breathing heavy from exertion, both of their hearts thumping frantically from shock. His arms tightened briefly around her back, his breath leaving his chest in a sudden exhalation before falling limply to his sides.  
  
He rested for a moment before lifting Rose up against him as he struggled to stand and regain his footing.  
  
"See, that's what you get for being rude with me," he scolded her. "Come on, we have to get out of here before another wave wipes us both off into the water," he said looking back towards the surging waves. He took her upper arm in his grasp and half-dragged Rose back towards the safety of the boardwalk.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Rose babbled, her teeth chattering from the cold shock.  
  
"Miss, right now I really wish you had taken my advice the first time I offered it," was all the stranger said to her over his shoulder as he led her back the way they had come.  
  
The boardwalk seemed a million miles away as they crept carefully from rock to rock, slowly making their way back to steady ground. A huge sigh of relief she wasn't aware she was holding escaped from her quivering lips as her booted feet squished solidly on the wooden planks.  
  
He dropped her arm at once and reached inside his coat pocket for his watch. He popped it open, looked down at the face and then scowled as he shook it, sending droplets of water raining down on the wooden boards. He closed it with a tight click and dropped it back into his inside pocket. Rose wrapped both of her hands around her tingling upper arms, trying to rub some feeling back into them.  
  
He looked uptown and then downtown. With his luck, her hotel would be all the way at either end of the strip. It was long after midnight and the boardwalk was deserted, which meant two rickshaws would be needed if she was staying at one of the farther away hotels. Was there even rickshaw service at this time of the night? Probably not, he thought, sighing and running a hand through his wet hair.  
  
He was almost tempted to leave her there, finally acquiescing to her request to be left alone. But his sense of duty to her was too strong, even though the stupid chit had almost gotten them both killed.  
  
"What hotel are you staying at?" The stranger asked gruffly as he took in her bedraggled, trembling form. "Hopefully, it's close or we'll both die of pneumonia."  
  
The stranger's hat was gone, knocked off by the waves and his dark hair fell over his forehead, partially obscuring eyes that gleamed in the hazy glow of the electric lights lining the boardwalk.  
  
Rose shifted from one foot to the other, shivering uncontrollably, her lank wet hair sending icy fingers of water down her spine.  
  
"Again, I'm sorry, for everything. I'm sorry for being rude, I'm sorry for not heeding your warning. You were only trying to help me," Rose said guiltily, her chattering teeth biting on every word she spoke. "I'll... I'll pay for the watch." If she hadn't been so cold, she would have burned with embarrassment.  
  
The stranger flicked his hand away. "Don't worry about it. Thankfully I was there, enough chit chat, though. It's more important for us to get inside before we freeze to death. Where's your hotel again?"  
  
Rose was momentarily speechless as she gestured numbly behind her. Her mind paused to dwell on what he had said. What if he hadn't been there? What if the wave had crashed over the rocks a few minutes earlier when she was out there alone? She was furious with herself for being so careless, so stupid.  
  
"Here. I'm staying at the Hotel Dennis."  
  
"This must be my lucky day," the stranger said, smiling as he took her leather-clad elbow and steered her across the boards toward the luxury hotel looming in front of them. "This is where I'm staying too."  
  
They rushed along the concrete path to the front of the hotel, both of them struggling not to break into a run away from the cold, blustery wind. The stranger held the heavy door open for her and they dashed past the startled attendants at the front desk, leaving dripping wet footprints in their wake on the pale, marble floor. They broke into a run when they spied the open, waiting elevator.  
  
The elevator operator did a double take at their soaked clothing, but he was decorous enough not to say a word. This was not the oddest occurrence he had ever witnessed in his years with the hotel. "What floor, sir?"  
  
The stranger looked at Rose as he pushed his limp hair off his forehead. "Please allow the lady off first, of course," he gestured to Rose.  
  
"The fourth floor, please," Rose said as she pulled her hair off the back of her neck and over her shoulder, listening as it pitter-patted in a jagged rhythm to the carpeted floor  
  
The operator nodded his head and pulled the gate shut, turning the lever to floor number four.  
  
Her hair was a lost cause and as she flung it back over her shoulder, Rose began to giggle nervously, the shock of events fully penetrating her mind. She held onto the brass railing tightly as elevator ascended, trying to stifle her giggles and failing. Both the stranger and the operator stared at her with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. As she saw the twin looks on their faces, she began to laugh in earnest, shrugging her shoulders as if to say she couldn't help it.  
  
After a moment the stranger, recognizing the folly of their misadventure on the jetty joined in, his laughter deep, warm and rich.  
  
Both of them stood side by side, on the back elevator wall, laughing as the lift reached Rose's floor. As she stepped out onto the marble of the vestibule, she turned and smiled gently at her Samaritan.  
  
"Thank you again, my knight in dripping wet armor for not throttling me and throwing me into the ocean yourself, even though I gave you every reason to do so."  
  
The stranger smiled and shook his head at her as he held his hand up in farewell. The operator closed the brass gate with a dull clunk and the elevator slowly began to descend to his floor. She watched him until he was gone and then turned down the hallway.  
  
Rose walked briskly to her room, shivering as she played over the amazing turn of events of the evening in her mind. She unlocked her door and turned the light switch and paused to push the door closed behind her. She let out a little cry of distress, realizing that she had never even thought to ask the stranger for his name.  
  
Peeling the wet clothes from her body and dropping them to the floor to be picked up in the morning, she moved from the bedroom to the adjoining bath where she ran a hot bath in the claw-footed tub to warm her frozen body. She pulled the fluffy white hotel towels from their shelf above the radiator and laid one across her shoulders and wrapped another around her midsection, allowing their warmth to envelope her goose-pimpled skin. She knelt by the tub, swirling her fingers in the rushing water as she waited for it to fill.  
  
Once done, she turned the faucets off and dropped the towels. She sighed as she stepped into the hot water, her body tingling from the sudden heat surrounding her. Rose sank gratefully into the tub, submerging herself up to her chin.  
  
She closed her eyes against the rising steam and leaned her head back against the enamel back splash.  
  
Oh, well, she mused sleepily. Maybe she and the stranger would meet again someday. 


	15. Visitors

**Chapter Fourteen Visitors**

When she lay down to go to sleep after her bath the night before, it felt as if she had just closed her eyes when the telephone beside her bed began to ring. She picked the receiver off the hook and brought it to her ear. With her other hand she grabbed the telephone's pedestal, pulling the mouth piece close to her mouth in order to speak.

"Hello," she croaked, clearing her sleep filled throat as she tried to rouse herself from the numbness of slumber.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry Rose," Sarah's tinny voice came through the wire. "I wasn't sure if you were meeting us for breakfast this morning."

"What time is it?" Rose asked, rolling over onto her back and glancing over at the clock, mentally groaning. "I think I'll sleep in today, Sarah, if you and Charlie don't mind," Rose said as she rubbed her sleep filled eyes.

Sarah said she understood and signed off the call. It took Rose three tries to place the earpiece of the phone back onto the brass hook. She rolled back over, snuggling into the decadent Egyptian cotton sheets and pulled the covers over her head, falling back to sleep. A few hours later, she awoke to her bladder loudly complaining it was uncomfortably full, so she threw the covers off and made her way to the bathroom.

After she was done with her morning ablutions, she pulled her wrapper from the hook on the back of the door and gave up trying to sleep. If she hurried, she would be able to meet Sarah and Charlie in the lobby after their breakfast. Scrunching up her nose, she realized she was had no desire to rush through dressing.

Today was her last day of freedom before Doug Calvert and Owen Morrow were scheduled to return by ocean liner from the war in Europe. The next few days were bound to be filled with social obligations, as Sarah had breakfasts, luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners scheduled that would last well into the night. Her eyes wandered over to the open closet and the line of new dresses she hastily purchased from the department store on her first day here. They had been altered and delivered for her by courier last evening before dinner. She hoped they would be enough to last her through the coming holiday season.

Her toilet preparations once again required the attention of a ladies maid, graciously provided by the hotel. She felt a slight pang of loss for Trudy every time she rang for Mary's services, but the girl was competent enough. Her grooming once again stretched to over an hour before being properly outfitted to venture out into public and society.

Rose knew her trousers were only accepted in private society, not here in this city, or even in Illinois when they returned, once all the homecoming parties and Christmas soirees in Chicago were scheduled. She had been pushing the boundaries of good taste in the small town of Collier's Grove and she knew she was lucky the townspeople of Collier's Grove tolerated her liberated ways. She also knew Sarah was counting on her being at the airfield for Christmas dinner and Rose had promised herself she wouldn't make a decision about her future until after the New Year had passed.

She was still so unsure about what to do.

During the weeks of recovery from influenza, different paths of travel started running through her mind. She wasn't sure if she wanted to journey more in the states or abroad. She was seriously considering a return to Europe, this time on her terms. She longed to roam through the cities of Italy and to see the Great Pyramids of Egypt. Paris would be absolutely beautiful in the springtime with the trees beginning to bloom with new life. But she wasn't sure if Europe had recovered enough from the Great War to warrant traveling. She knew she could meet the expense of the passage and a slight tour of Europe alone, however, society would demand she pay for a ladies companion, which she wasn't sure she could afford on her own.

On the long train ride to New Jersey, Rose and Sarah had time to sit down and talk in a way they had not been able to in a long time back at the airfield. From Sarah, she learned Owen Morrow's fiancée, Evelyn Parkhurst-Thomas was the daughter of a wealthy banker and part of Chicago society. It was also interesting to learn at one time in the past, she had been a sweetheart of Doug Calvert. Rose loved gossip and knew in her heart there had to be an interesting story to be heard there somewhere, but she respected Sarah enough not to ask.

Rose was also surprised to learn Charlie was kin to the Thomas family through his grandmother and inherited an ample sum of funds when he became an adult. His inheritance allowed them to survive when so many others around them were losing their farms ten years ago when the crops failed. It was such juxtaposition, knowing Charlie now, she never would she have placed him as a member of one of Chicago's leading families. Because of his family ties, Rose learned the Adler's would be expected to attend many holiday balls in Chicago and Sarah vehemently reminded Rose she was part of the family and expected to attend.

Looking into the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she once again found herself becoming the image of Rose DeWitt Bukater, as every dress, every shoe and accessory were chosen with a careful eye to the styles of the coming year. She knew she was going to have to step lightly when the time came to enter Chicago society. She would be a novelty to them, a mystery woman with no past, an aviatrix, and a woman who moved in a man's world. They would be quite lovely and kind to her face, but the minute her back was turned, they would attempt to entangle her in spider webs woven with rumor, innuendo and lies.

Rose was feeling quite torn about these upcoming engagements. On one hand, she was excited by the idea of dancing and socializing again, but on the other, she felt like a fraud, afraid she was being viewed as a freeloader, not officially a member of the Adler clan.

She sighed and walked over to her closet. Lying on her dressing table chair was the newest edition of Vanity Fair, and she picked it up and measured with a calculated eye the dresses within the pages of the magazine and the ones hanging in her closet. She had done well, impressed she had not lost her eye for style. She fingered the dresses carefully, feeling the soft gray cashmere and silk of one dinner gown and the heavy brocade and chiffon of another.

Feeling restless, she walked over the wide glass windows and pulled open the heavy drapes. She stared out over the ocean and then closed her eyes, tilting her head from side to side, appeasing some of the tension left over from sleeping. Her hair was in a heavy braid down her back and it swept against her nightgown as she stretched. She casually pulled the red weight over her shoulder, fingering the twines. Once again she pondered briefly the idea of cutting it, knowing it would drastically cut down on the time it took to get ready every morning and evening.

But not yet, she mused as she threw the braid back over her shoulder to brush against the small of her back. Soon, maybe, but not today.

As she stood there gazing down over the back of the hotel, she was surprised to see her savior from the night before walking up the path from the boardwalk. His overcoat was open, flapping in the breeze as he strolled and a new hat was perched high on his forehead. He had a newspaper tucked his arm and a coffee in the other. As he came closer, he looked up at the hotel, almost right at her and she stepped back from the window in surprise.

Astonishing herself, she opened the curtain again, wanting to watch his even stride on the concrete path. Even four stories away, she was struck by the calm confidence he exuded as he smiled easily and touched the tip of his hat in greeting to a group of passing women. He certainly was pleasing to look at, she thought, smiling slightly.

Now where did that thought come from? Rose groaned, the smile fading from her lips as she clutched the curtains tightly, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger at herself. How could she have done something as stupid as she had the previous evening? Why was she always so impulsive?

The implications of what could have happened if he wasn't there would not leave her mind. Scenarios continually ran through her head, each one becoming increasingly upsetting. The ocean could have taken her as easily as it claimed _Titanic_ and no one would have been the wiser until her broken and drowned body washed onto the shore. Even worse was the added guilt of what could have happened if they were both washed into the sea.

What if he wasn't able to keep his balance as he clung to her hands, what if another monstrous wave crashed over the jetty and sent them both hurtling into the freezing water two thousand feet from the shoreline? It was bad enough she almost lost her own life, but to take his too, when his only crime was trying to save her made her heart beat a little bit faster.

Her hands shook and she took a deep ragged breath, pouring water into a crystal glass on the table by the window. She drank deeply, feeling the flush on her face recede, but knowing there were still twin spots of high color staining her white skin.

Breakfast was going to be a solitary event this morning, she thought as she walked over to the side table and picked up the telephone to order room service. She knew it was impossible to stay hidden in her room for the remainder of her stay here, but she hoped fate would be on her side and not let her cross paths again with the stranger from the evening before. She knew if she did see him again, she would positively die of mortification, suddenly sure he thought her actions the night before rude and ridiculous.

After her breakfast had been delivered and she had eaten her fill, she glanced down at the boards again, surprised to find the cold weather from the night before seemed to have disappeared. People of all ages roamed the boards and the piers enjoying the day. Coats were unbuttoned and children ran ahead of their parents in silent glee. It was an easy decision for her to wander back out onto the boards alone, wanting to think some more about what she should do next after moving on from the airfield.

She choose a dark green dress carefully, knowing it flattered her hair and her eyes. There was no need for Mary's services this morning as she twisted her hair loosely on the top of her head and secured it with hidden pins. She cautiously applied her make up, darkening her lips crimson and lengthening her lashes with mascara. She pulled on her good wool overcoat and placed her new walking hat over her hair. As she pulled on her gloves, she gave herself one last approving look in the mirror, dropping her room key into her pocket as she left her room.

She felt as furtive as a fugitive moving through the hotel lobby, using her hat as a shield to hide behind, not wanting to be interrupted. Once she hit the concrete path she sighed, enjoying the warm sea breeze and the sunshine on her upturned face. She began to move towards the boards with a purpose, deciding to browse a few of the fine shops that lined the shoreline, possibly finding a few small trinkets for the Adler's on Christmas day.

Rose was leaving a milliner's shop with a purchase for Sarah and as she turned from closing the door, she stumbled over a large dog sitting in her path. She grunted in surprise, automatically placing her head on the dog's head as she fought to keep her balance. The dog did not move from his sitting position, waiting patiently for her to regain her footing.

"Silly boy," she chided the dog gently as she stroked his head. "Off with you now. Be a good boy and go home."

Rose began to walk down the wooden planks, looking back to see if the dog was still there. He wasn't sitting there any longer, he was heading right for her and a flicker of apprehension coursed through her, turning to astonishment as he jumped up on her coat, his tail wagging a mile a minute. In the bright sunlight, it looked as if he was grinning at her as he jumped around her ankles before sitting down in front of her, his tongue lolling as he cuffed happily once.

"Well, hello there, boy," she said as she knelt beside the dark colored dog. He was some kind of retriever, she knew on sight. She stroked his head and scratched behind his ears, all the while speaking to him gently. He flopped to the deck and rolled onto his side, presenting his belly for rubbing. She chuckled at the sight of the silly dog. "What's your name, huh? Where's your master? Let's see if you have a tag, what do you say?"

She started in surprise as she read his name from the silver tag hanging off the red leather collar. No, it couldn't be, how could he be been here? Her mood was suddenly buoyant as she hugged the dog in happiness; thankful she had found a friend from her past. She heard the sound of clomping feet beating a steady rhythm behind her on the boards.

"Sam, there you are, I'm sorry miss, and I really don't know what got into him. Usually he stays by my side." A young man with a light French accent stood in front of her, resting his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath.

Rose raised her head silently, unveiling her face from behind her hat. She was deliberately casual as she stood slowly, smiling as recognition flew across his handsome face.

"Maybe he recognized an old friend from the past," she said quietly, not taking her hand from the dog's head.

Sam cuffed as if in agreement, leaning his heavy body against her legs, his nails scratching along the boards as he fought for balance.

"Rose?" The man stood up, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his short, black hair, before pulling her towards him for a bear hug.

"Julian, stop it. I can't breathe. Let me go!" She cried happily as she pulled back from him.

"What...what are you doing here?" He asked as he held her at arm's length, taking her in with his dark blue eyes.

"I could say the same for you, my boy," Rose smiled becomingly.

"Well, my love, New Orleans could not offer me the attention I felt I deserved once you were gone. I lost my best acting partner after you took off like a thief in the night," he waved a hand in dismissal. "I wandered around for awhile, trying to decide what to do next and ended up in Atlantic City, which is a story much too long to elaborate here on the boardwalk."

"Where is Philippe?" Rose asked, not imagining seeing Julian again without Philippe.

Julian's face clouded over. "He enlisted, Rose, and died a year and a half ago."

"Oh, Julian, oh no...not Philippe." A lump formed in her throat, as she fought the sudden tears for a lost friend rushing to the surface once again. "I'm so sorry."

Her mind echoed in pain Sarah's sentiment from when she was ill. _There's so much death here._

Julian nodded grimly. "He missed you terribly you know, much more then I did," he said lightly, trying to break the mood as he handed her his silk handkerchief from his coat pocket.

"Oh you," she said, smiling through her blurred vision as she swiped at him half-heartedly. "I missed you both terribly, too."

"Are you working? I've only arrived about a month ago and I've been so busy, I haven't checked out any of the playbills from the other theaters. I'm directing now," Julian said proudly. "Hamlet of all things, can you believe it? There never was a better Ophelia than you, Rose. You deserved every standing ovation you received in New Orleans with those performances. No one played madness quite as well as you."

"Thank you so much!" Rose cried, playfully indignant. She shook her head shivering, as a cool blast of air swept off the ocean and lifted the stray curls under her hat into her face.

Julian's fingers took her arm with gentle authority as he began to lead her down the boards. "Come; let's walk, you know I positively do not want to let you out of my sight for a moment after not seeing you in so long," he said as he snapped a leash onto Sam's collar.

"Where are you staying?" Rose asked.

"Ah, we're staying in the lap of luxury, of course, in the penthouse at the Traymore. Only the best will do for the Packard's, you know, even a black sheep like me," he smiled bitterly and Rose remembered the grand plantation house of his family, which she had visited once in an ill-fated ruse to dupe Julian's parents into believing she was his mysterious fiancée who was keeping him in the city and away from his family.

They linked arms and strolled towards the Millionaire's Pier. "It is much too late for breakfast, but if we walk a bit more, we will be just in time for brunch. You know I won't take no for an answer," Julian said as they stopped before the entrance to the pier.

"Of course, Julian," Rose smiled up at him. "I would like to freshen up a bit of course, and drop off my packages. Would it be possible to walk back to my hotel? I'm staying at the Dennis."

"Better yet," Julian said as he flagged down a passing rickshaw, "let's ride to your hotel in style!" He tipped the driver additionally for Sam and grasped Rose's elbow as he helped her climb aboard the boardwalk's version of the hansom cab. "I have to drop Sam off back at the Traymore anyway. These hotels are so funny about letting pets in, you should see the bills he racks up for my father."

They chatted on the way back to her hotel and Rose began to tell him about how she ended up in Illinois and staying with the Adler's. Before they knew it, they were in front of her hotel. "What do you say we meet in the lobby here in two hours?" Rose asked as she took Julian's hand and allowed him to help her down from the rickshaw. "We have so much to catch up on. I can't wait to tell you what I've been doing all this time."

"Until then, milady," he said as he bent over her gloved hand and placed a chaste kiss on her palm.

"Oh you," she admonished him as she sent him on his way with a quick kiss and an all too brief hug.

Back in her room, she sat on the bed silently, amazed at the coincidence, which returned Julian to her life. But only Julian, she thought sadly.

As her first real friend in New Orleans, Philippe was the more serious side of their trio, but also the one who instigated most of their adventures, the one who balanced their escapades with only a little bit of common sense.

Another ghost to add to my collection, she thought as she lay back on the bed covers and stared at the ceiling.

She had chosen to lose herself in New Orleans and for nearly five years she managed it.

New Orleans had been like a long lost lover to her, more than willing to open its arms to her charms and press her to its chest and soothe her shattered nerves from the unforgiving streets of New York City.

Armed with the wad of cash found in Cal's pocket and a frugality that was new to her, she began to start a new life in the city she had first visited when she was ten. She treasured every memory of New Orleans ever since a surprise visit with her father for her fourteenth birthday, as it was the last place they were alone together before he died.

In New Orleans, the voices where softer, slower and kinder then the streets of New York. It was such an odd blend of French and Creole that was at once oddly beautiful and lyrically pleasing to the ear. Even now, she knew she could listen to Julian recite the Bible, just to hear him speak in that delicious accent of his.

After she had found a room to stay in and a theater company signed her on, she would spend her days off wandering Jackson Square and First Street in the Garden district. The houses were so beautiful, with the massive oak trees dripping Spanish moss and the gardens overwhelmed with fragrant, vibrant blossoms. She would stand outside on the brick walkways breathing in the scents of the city, trying to imagine whom these people were who lived behind the wrought iron fences in these grand houses. She wondered about the daughters she saw, dressed in their finery, if they were bounded by their own laws of society and if any of them, like her wished they could throw it all away and start anew.

She kept to herself. Real friendships in the theater was an impossibility, she thought.

Real friendships meant questions about past experiences and she was not willing, or strong enough to field questions of her past. They wanted to dissect your past, believing it was their right to know everything about you, whether you felt comfortable about sharing or not. It was their way of placing you in the pecking order of the group. She was not naive enough to look at the first few attempts by the women in the troop without suspicion. Everything was a competition there, from where and how you were born and raised to the last part you were given the lead in. Every bit of information they could gleam from you was ammunition to be savored and fired about as needed.

Rose became very good at giving the other women very chilly receptions. She snapped, she snarled and she was blessedly left alone. It was very surprising to learn the colder and more haughty you acted, the more you seemed to be feared and admired by the other women in the company.

These were her impressions of theater life until the one day she discovered the courage to show some of her ideas to Philippe, the costume designer of the play she had just been cast as the lead in. This was her first leading role and she took it very seriously. She had definite ideas about how she thought her character was to look, sound and act.

Philippe surprisingly loved them and to her shock, they struck an easy and amiable friendship. He took her vague answers about her past at face value, never digging further than Rose allowed. Through Philippe she met Julian, the lead male in many of troupe's performances. When Julian became her opposite in many of the stage productions, her natural talent as an actress bloomed and the theater began to enjoy more sold out shows, as long as their names graced the marquee together.

After the shows, she would overhear Julian and Philippe discussing their plans for the evening, or past experiences with ladies of the night they had encountered. One evening she was delayed in undressing from character by the director and by the time she had a chance to, everyone else had gone home. It was only the three of them and Julian decided it was a grand plan to include her in one of their many adventures.

"Come with us Rose, we'll dress you as a man and we'll gallivant all night long in the red light district." Julian said as he tugged a red curl down her back, still high from ovations after the performance.

The heavy makeup worn on the stage dried to a cake finish on her flawless face and she began to scrub it off with a worn wash cloth and soap. "How?"

"How?" Philippe asked as he watched her in the mirror, his sandy blond hair falling across his dark eyes and shading his face momentarily. "Rose, we are in an empty theatre with a prop and costume room at our disposal. I'm the costume designer of this magnificent company, what do you mean how? You insult me," he said as his hand fell across his chest in mock wounding.

"This is a once in a lifetime chance. If you hadn't distracted Edward for so long, you'd been home asleep already," Julian smiled as he sidled along the other side of her.

"I distracted him?" Rose asked indignantly. "He was critiquing my performance!"

Julian rolled his eyes and elbowed Philippe. "Did he ask you to dinner when he was done?"

"Well, yes. He does after every performance," Rose said, smoothing cream onto her clean face.

"Then you distracted him. Come on, Rose. Come with us. It will be an experience you'll never forget." Philippe said as he leaned a hip against the dressing table.

"I've had quite a few memorable experiences in my life, Philippe. What makes you so sure this one with live up to them?"

"Ah, the memorable experiences you hint at always, but never deliver. This time will be different, we promise, because this time you'll experience it as a man."

Rose sighed and folded her hands on the table. She had to admit it was tempting, to be sure, being able to wander the streets in men's clothing, live as a man, even for just the night? She faced them squarely in the mirror, watching their eyes glow in the electric light of the bulbs surrounding the mirror. "How long to get me ready?"

Julian and Philippe threw their heads back and laughed. "Not long, not long at all, we promise."

They were true to their word and an hour later an unsettling visage began to emerge from her mirror. With a dusty brown wig borrowed from the prop department and a bit of epoxy glue above her lip holding a slight mustache, she had been transformed into a young man.

A young man with delicate, effeminate blue eyes.

"She can wear a hat," Julian offered in a French whisper, arms crossed as he stood staring at her reflection from behind her.

"Don't talk about me like I don't understand what you're saying," Rose admonished, "I don't know about a hat. What about glasses?" Rose asked, turning her head, checking for loose curls and sneaking a finger up under the wig to scratch her scalp. "Are you sure this thing doesn't have fleas? My scalp itches."

"No, it was dusted for fleas just yesterday. The light will be low in the clubs, I don't think anyone will notice you," Philippe said as he looked her over critically. "But a hat, yes, let me get you a hat. You'll be breaking hearts tonight, Monsieur Dawson."

Rose rolled her eyes as she stood up. "Hardly," she said dryly.

The jacket and trousers were loose, and the stiff collar of her shirt was chafing against her neck but other than that, it was almost a perfect fit. She bent over to lace up her boots and twitched her nose. The moustache was going to be a problem as the evening wore on, she thought as she tried to carefully scratch it with a tip of a fingernail. But it would have to do.

She linked arms with her new friends and entered the streets of New Orleans reborn as Jack Dawson.

Back then, in the existence she thrived on, she would have been up to any sort of adventure presented to her. If it was a challenge, she was up for it, plain and simple. Challenges were what she thrived on. She knew the first few times she wandered the streets with them as a man she must have look absurd, but as they began to venture out together after more and more shows, both Philippe and Julian could see her becoming a man, picking up their social cues and their mannerisms and even mimicking their accents.

It was ironic in a sense, here she was trying to pass, so they called it, as a male, when there was so many more people of color trying to pass as white.

Philippe and Julian introduced her to new sights, sounds and ideas. She could not come to grips at first; brought up as she was in the shackles of Philadelphia society the thought of someone who looked the same as her was barred from sections of the city because some distant ancestor had been a slave. But this was how life was lived in New Orleans and she could not change hundreds of years of tradition. In certain sections of the city, there would be octoroon balls held, in order for women of color to be introduced to upper class men, to become mistresses. Julian and Philippe asked her if she wanted to go, but she refused, not wanting to see women of color chosen as one would choose meat for the evening meal.

Her world in Philadelphia was almost prudish compared to what she at first saw in this loose and extravagant city. Sometimes she felt as if all of New Orleans suffered an utter lack of morals. But, she had to admit she was also intrigued. Julian came from a very stiff upper class family, who was able to trace their linage from Louis the Sun King, so they were able to gain entrance to many of these halls on the merit of his name alone.

They had a lot in common, her and Julian, which he must have recognized no matter how hard she tried to hide her past. Neither of them ever questioned her story of growing up in Philadelphia, the daughter of a wealthy merchant and marrying a man against the wishes of her family. They had expressed out rage at her family of her subsequent disinheriting, leaving her penniless and alone after her husband died.

Julian's family was pressuring him to marry a wealthy cousin of his, so their excursions to Storyville were for him a way to blow off steam. The section of city named Storyville was founded in1898, when a man named Sidney Story introduced an ordinance for a restricted area where prostitution was allowed.

It was a very eclectic, very diverse area. Only this area could bring together Downtown black musicians with Creoles and Uptown blacks with the upper class of New Orleans. The lively music would fill the air every evening from dusk till dawn.

Rose remembered standing on a street corner dancing until her feet would give out from exhaustion. She could imagine she was dancing as she danced that night so long ago, in love. Philippe and Julian would stand back and watch in amazement as Rose would sweep an unsuspecting woman into her arms and twirl her around before letting her go.

They became inseparable, the three of them, and for the first time Rose felt as if she belonged.

Some nights they sat around a table in Philippe's small apartment on Bourbon Street and talk for hours about everything and nothing, smoking and drinking red wine. It felt so very bohemian. They knew they were the talk of the theater and gossip was being thrown about freely about the three of them, but they didn't care. They would stay up until the sun would slowly melt into the room, turning all the furnishings a burnished gold before saying good-night and heading to their own homes.

When the two of them taught her how to play poker on evening, she caught on like a fish to water. When they thought she could hold her own with the big players they decided to go to a saloon owned by Tom Anderson and it was there she honed her poker skills.

It would drive the other men insane when she would win.

They knew there was something different about her, something they couldn't quite put their finger on. By this time and after many excursions into the New Orleans underworld, she was quite adept at stepping into the role of Jack Dawson, the ne'er do well who was quite good at taking the pot home at the end of the night.

Over time, she amassed a small fortune in winnings, Sam and the Model-T she drove across the country.

Rose sighed in embarrassment, thinking back to the night she won the key to the car and the quick thinking of Philippe who stashed her in one of the ladies bedrooms. She quickly changed out of her disguise into a dress because the man she won the motor car from decided he wanted it back, with a piece of her flesh thrown into the bargain.

It should have frightened her to death, but she instead she relished it. It breathed new life into her body and brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks. How she remembered laughing and laughing when they were finally able to escape from the saloon and made their way back to her room. She could not wait to finish her performances every evening on stage so she could escape with her friends.

She thought she could stay with them forever. But like all good times, this too, had to come to an end.

When the melancholy she thought she had banished returned, she knew it was time to move on. Life was moving forward. Julian finally gave in to the pressure of his family and became engaged to his distant cousin and Philippe was planning to move to Hollywood to design costumes for the moving pictures.

Rose closed her eyes briefly, remembering the last words Julian spoke to her as she packed up her car. She had made Julian promise to keep Sam safe, knowing the road was no where for him to be.

He held out his hand to her and she took it, only wanting to bury her nose in his neck and inhale his scent one last time. She held him tightly, saddened Philippe was not there to say good-bye. His arms tightened around her and he nudged her chin up to look at him in the eyes. He kissed her gently and Rose drew back in surprise.

"Marry me, Rose," Julian's voice whispered from across the past as the telephone began to ring.

She jerked up to a sitting position and swung her legs onto the floor. Picking up the ear piece, she breathlessly said hello.

"Oh Rose! You'll never believe what has happened!" Sarah bubbled happily on the other end of the line. "Doug is here! His ship docked a day earlier then expected and he arrived last night! He's home and he's safe and I can't wait for you to meet my son!"


	16. Coincidences

**Coincidences**

"Sarah, that's wonderful news!" Rose exclaimed as she sat back down on the bed. "When did he arrive?"

"After midnight last night, he said. He didn't want the front desk disturb us so he waited until after breakfast this morning to let us know he arrived. I, of course couldn't wait for him to come up to our room, so I rushed down to his. He looks so skinny and pale, but he's alive and he's home and that's all that matters."

Rose could hear Sarah's deep sigh of contentment and sadness over the wire. She smiled to herself, happy for Sarah and Charlie, but knowing they were feeling the loss of Robert who was buried in France.

"Have you made luncheon plans yet?" Sarah asked.

"Oh, Sarah, actually I have. I ran into an old friend from New Orleans on the boardwalk this morning and we had plans to meet and catch up over lunch. Would you like me to cancel?"

"Oh, of course not Rose, you can meet Doug at dinner," Sarah said, and Rose noticed something odd in Sarah's voice and Rose did not want to believe it was disapproval. "It's probably for the best. I think he would rather settle in quietly. He's already commented on how overwhelmed he feels being back in the United States. He says it's too quiet. I can't imagine what his life must have been like if he considers Atlantic City quiet. I can't wait to get him back home to Illinois and in his own home."

"I'm sure it will do him good to be home," Rose said as she picked at the chenille cover on her bed.

"Why don't you meet us for drinks in the lounge at seven? Jason should be arriving later this afternoon and it will give him time to check into his room and relax a bit before dinner."

Rose said that sounded fine and signed off the call. So the prodigal son had returned. She wondered what he would be like, after hearing stories of him for so many months. Would he welcome her into the fold of his family as his parents did, or would he want her to pack her bags and soon as possible and leave his home? She had to admit she was nervous to meet him and afraid she would fail to make a good impression. She wondered honestly why she would care what he thought of her, it wasn't normally in her nature to worry about what other people thought. But she wanted to be accepted for Sarah and Charlie.

Rose sighed and moved to her dressing table to freshen up. If she didn't hurry, she'd be late for her meeting with Julian and she remembered how much he hated to have to wait.

There was no need to change, so she just reapplied her lipstick before picking up her reticule and taking the elevator down to the first floor. Wanting to make an impression, she walked down the marble stairs to the lobby slowly, relishing the look of hunger that sprung up in the eyes of Julian, and of other men who were sitting at the bottom of the stairs in leather chairs. It was easy to forget she was a beautiful woman when she spent most of her time covered from head to toe with engine grease, so every look of appreciation she received was welcomed.

As she stood on the last step, Julian stood and came towards her. He held out his arm and they walked into the dining room together. The other diners turned towards them while they waited for the Maitre' D to seat them. She was aware of how striking they looked together, it was one of the reasons they worked so well together on the stage. They had an easy chemistry that sometimes bristled with a never named tension.

Rose knew it would not be difficult to fall in love with Julian, if she only she could allow herself. She knew it as plain as the nose on her face when they were together in New Orleans and they shared passionate kisses on stage in character. But back then, she wasn't ready to fall in love with anyone.

_What about now?_ A little voice whispered in her head. She mentally shushed herself as Julian held out her chair for her.

When they were seated by the glass windows with the warm sunshine washing over them from the large glass windows overlooking the ocean, they picked up their menus and Julian asked Rose how long she planned to be in Atlantic City.

"I'm not working here, if that's what you mean," Rose replied, relishing the warmth of the sun on her shoulders as she spread the linen napkin in her lap. "I'm here with Charlie and Sarah Adler who are meeting their son as he returned from the war. I started to tell you about them on the ride to my hotel."

She took a sip from her water glass and looked around at the other diners. "I'll only be here for another two days and then I'll be heading back to Illinois with them."

Julian put down his menu and looked at her squarely. "Rose, you surprise me. I never would have expected you to become so, I don't know," he paused groping for the right word, "domestic."

"Ah, Julian, if you only knew. I'm far from domestic," she leaned forward with a twinkle in her eye. "I've been flying a plane for Charlie running the mail up and down the northern seaboard while his sons were overseas fighting in the war."

"An airplane? Are you one of those barnstormer people I've been hearing about lately? Do you do tricks in the air?"

Rose shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not a barnstormer by any means, I don't do shows for money, and Charlie has a government contract to fly parcels of mail from Chicago to New York and Philadelphia. It's all regimented and very straight forward. It's an amazing experience flying so high above the clouds. I'll be sad to let it go."

"So no tricks in the air you could show me, huh? No wing walking or flights of fury towards the ground?" Julian smiled as he pulled a silver cigarette case from the inside pocket of his afternoon jacket. He leaned back in his chair as he opened it and tapped a cigarette lightly on the tablecloth. He offered one to Rose, but she refused, still nursing her lungs from her illness.

"No, I do straight flying. That isn't to say I haven't taught myself a trick or two alone up there in the clouds," said Rose as she leaned back in her chair. Julian lit his cigarette with a match and inhaled deeply, discarding the match in the glass ash tray on the table.

The white coated waiter came by for their drink order and placed a basket of still warm bread on the table. They could see the heat rising from the rolls in misted steam.

"No wonder you beat out of New Orleans as quickly as you did. You had aero planes to fly." Julian said as he exhaled smoke. "Why do you think you would have to give it up? Do you want to give it up?"

"Well, the men are returning from the war. Charlie only has one plane to fly and it belongs to his son who returned from the war. As for wanting to give it up, I don't know. I'm starting to feel restless again."

Julian nodded and flicked his cigarette ashes into the ashtray. "Will you settle down one day, do you think, for good? Get married, have children, a house?"

Rose gave him a half smile as she moved back to allow the waiter to place her glass of wine in front of her. "One day, for sure, but not yet. I still feel there are so many things to see and do. I'm not ready to be tied down. It wouldn't be fair to me and it certainly wouldn't be fair to the person I marry. They would deserve someone who would make them happy and to be able to give themselves fully. I don't feel I would be ready to do that yet, I have a hard time pleasing myself, as you well know."

Julian nodded as he sipped his scotch. "Well, Rose, it certainly sounds as if you know what you're doing. Why should you marry if you aren't ready? I wish my parents would get that fact through their thick skulls. They love to tell me about how it was in the past, how marriages were arranged and how I should feel lucky they are giving me a choice in marriage," he sniffed sarcastically.

"As if what they were doing wasn't trying to arrange a marriage for me. They want to live my life as it was in the old ways, not wanting to embrace the fact times are changing."

Rose smiled slightly as she picked a roll from the stack, remembering with a slight pang she was now an orphan. "I suppose I just haven't found the right man yet."

"Oh how you wound me! You certainly are a heart breaker, young Rose."

"You can't mean that, Julian," Rose put down her glass. "I've never tried to give anyone the impression I was anything other then just me. I never played men for their affections, you know that."

"Of course I know that Rose, but you, my sweet, you just need to be Rose and men flock around you. You're an incredibly beautiful woman with quite the mystery surrounding her. Men want to learn all about you."

"You mean they want to possess me and I can never allow that. I would never allow that."

"Not all men want to possess you, my Rose and I can't imagine what the men you must have been entangled with in the past were like to believe all men are like that. I'm sure your husband wasn't like that or you never would have married him. No one would ever be able to count you as one of their possessions; you would wither away and die."

Rose felt a flush heating up her neck at the reminder of the false husband she had given Julian and Philippe. "So you weren't serious when you asked me to marry you?" Rose asked.

"Oh, yes, I was serious. I had been in love with you from the moment I laid eyes on you," Julian said as he stubbed out his cigarette. "What I would have done if you said yes, well then, that would have been quite the quandary."

They paused in speaking as the waiter came over again for their lunch orders.

"What do you think looks good today, Rose?" Julian said as he picked up his menu to peruse again.

"Well," Rose began, "I think I would like to start with the hot consommé and then the walnut loaf. For my entrée, I believe I will try the roast sugar cured ham with walnut dressing. I would like the carrots and sautéed potatoes with that." She smiled up at the waiter and he smiled back at her, caught off guard by her beauty.

"I believe I will have the same, my good man," Julian said as he took Rose's menu and laid it on top of his. He lifted them up and clicked them together on the table before handing them to the waiter.

When he was gone, Rose sipped her wine slowly, trying to wrap her mind around what Julian admitted to her. "You were not in love with me. How could you have been? I think I would have noticed something in all the years we were together."

Julian laughed. "My love, I'm an actor. I thought if I feigned indifference, it would make you flock to my side. Little did I know you were not a normal woman who thrived on men who acted foolish in that way."

"Now I know you're joking," Rose said as she clasped his hand across the table. He might have been in love with her a little bit, but Julian was much too in love with himself to truly fall deeply madly in love with anyone.

"What about you, I take it you are no longer engaged to Joan?"

"Her name was Julia and no. She ran away and eloped with Gus, the stable hand. Good thing she did too, because there was no way that marriage would have been a success. Could you imagine the engraved wedding invitations, Julian and Julia? It made my teeth hurt, it was so sickeningly sweet," Julian raised his glass in mock tribute to his cousin and her husband. "I wish her much happiness though, where ever she may be."

"Your parents must have been mortified."

"Not as badly as hers, I would presume. I can't imagine my parents inviting them over for Christmas dinner this year, do you?"

"You're their only son, Julian. Are they planning another wedding for you?"

Julian paused to pull out another cigarette and lit it before answering. The chatter from the other tables grew louder as a large afternoon party came in and was seated not far from them. Julian looked at Rose levelly, as if trying to decide how much to tell her. He inhaled a few times and finally came to a decision.

"After many evenings of silent treatment, whereas they acted as if it were MY fault she eloped," Julian leaned forward and whispered, "even though I did give him the keys to my car and a thousand dollars to start their life together, but my parents will never need to know that, right?"

Rose laughed as the waiter brought their first course, consommé.

"My father gave me until I'm thirty five to find a suitable bride on my own. On three conditions, of course," Julian moved back so the waiter could place his soup in front of her. "She must be from a good family, wealthy and Catholic, like us. Although I would hardly count myself as a good Catholic. I can't even remember the last time I went to mass and the idea of confessing ALL of my sins to a priest is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. But I don't think it should take too long to fill those requirements, what do you say?" He smiled bitterly and Rose was at a loss for words.

"I didn't think so either," Julian continued. "So if I survive to my thirty-fifth birthday unable to meet the conditions set, I have to marry a woman of my father and mother's choosing and then strive to get her with child and continue the Packard line. If I refuse, well then, I'm cut off. Nada, zilch, no money for wee little Julian. My cousin Raphael inherits everything."

Rose shuddered inwardly for him, thinking back to the weekend she spent at Julian's family antebellum mansion on the Mississippi River and meeting his cousin Raphael. "Oh Julian, you can't allow that worm to inherit. He'll lose everything your family has worked so hard for within the year."

Julian nodded in agreement. "I hate the little bugger. At least my father has the good sense not to tell him or he'd probably be plotting to be rid of me as we speak. It's too bad you stabbed the little scoundrel in the hand that wonderful evening at dinner, until then the only fault my parents found with you was that weren't from the south," his voice deepened and drug out the syllables, becoming a harsher parody of his own accent..

Rose put down her spoon, the silver clattering against the china bowl.

"He stuck his hand up my skirt right there at the dinner table! He was so drunk and I was placed alone at the end of the table with him and he wouldn't take no for an answer. I had no choice."

"I know, my love, I know," Julian said as he drained the last of his drink. He signaled the waiter for another and smiled slyly at Rose. "The dinner party certainly came alive when Raphael screamed like a girl and fell backwards in his chair," Julian smiled wistfully. "I still like to replay that memory over and over in my mind."

But Rose's smile faded as she no longer heard Julian's voice. She was caught off guard by the one person she was hoping to avoid for the remainder of her stay here. Over Julian's shoulder she spotted her unknown Samaritan standing alone at the Maitre D's podium. The Maitre D gestured into the dining room behind him and Rose felt her savior's eyes slide over the dining room. Biting her lip, she glanced down quickly, wanting to avoid his notice. Her breath quickened and her face flushed again unwillingly.

Julian watched her reaction silently and turned to look behind him while she was looking at the table. "Rose, is everything alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Rose shook her head. "No, not a ghost, just someone I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my time here at the hotel. It's inevitable, I suppose, I will run into him again at some point," she sighed and looked up, but the stranger was gone.

Julian leaned forward in his chair and took Rose's hand. "What is going on?" He asked her gently as he looked in her eyes. "Did this person hurt you in any way? Just let me know who he is and I'll take care of him for you."

Rose looked up and Julian and was warmed by the concern she saw in his eyes. "No, Julian, he didn't hurt me in any way. In fact, he saved my life."

Julian looked at her with confusion in his eyes. "Then why are you –"

"Reacting this way?" Rose took a deep swallow of her wine and tried to arrange her thoughts. "I guess I should tell you the whole story, you deserve that much for being such a good friend to me all of these years."

The waiter came to take their soup course away and another waiter brought them their next course right after their bowls were whisked away. She welcomed the delay, trying to decide how much to tell Julian, how to explain the lies she had told him so many years ago.

"When I met my," she paused and then to decided to continue letting him believe she was married at one time, "husband, I was on a trip in Europe with my mother and fiancé."

"Your fiancé at the time was not the man you married? What a scandal in society that must have caused," Julian smiled, warming to story.

"No. As a matter of fact, no one in society ever learned of him." Julian sat back, momentarily rebuffed.

"I met him in England, at the end of our four month journey. It was a whirlwind courtship and I was not happy with the man my mother picked out for me to marry. When my husband and I eloped, it was right before we sailed home on _Titanic_."

"Oh dear Lord, Rose. You where there? On the maiden voyage of the ship they said was unsinkable?" Julian's face registered shock as he threw back the rest of his scotch. "I think I'll need another drink for the rest of this story," he said as he motioned to their waiter for another drink. When the boy came over, he ordered another drink for Rose, too. "Liquid courage, my love. I think we're both going to need it."

Rose smiled gratefully and finished the wine in her glass. "The night I finally dredged up the courage to tell my mother what we had done, well, that was the night _Titanic_ sank. As you can imagine, neither she nor my fiancé took the news very well. They were both enraged, especially my fiancé." Rose couldn't believe she was skirting so close to the truth with what she was telling Julian. She would never give up his name thought, she still felt so very protective of Jack and their short time together.

"When it became known the ship was doomed, madness erupted, as you can quite well imagine and as I'm sure you've heard from the witnesses who survived. My husband and I used this to our advantage to escape my mother, my fiancé and his valet. We were still on the ship as it began the last descent into the ocean, clinging to the railings on the stern," she closed her eyes, remembering the feeling of terror from that evening once again.

"As the stern with us clinging to it slipped under the water, we let go and shot towards the surface. I lost him for a moment in the pandemonium of all the bodies in the freezing water, but then somehow we found each other again and swam away from the screaming and thrashing people."

"Dear God, Rose. Never did I imagine..." Julian trailed off as their drinks were brought to the table.

"My husband found a wardrobe door floating in the water, but it would only withstand my weight. I lay on it and he lay in the water, holding onto my hands. By the time a boat came back to look for survivors, the screams and yelling had all but died down," Rose was no longer seeing the dining room or even Julian. "It was just me and him, I thought. He made me promise to never let go, to live, but when I tried to awaken him to let him know a boat was coming, it was too late and he was gone. In order to save myself I had to break my hand free of his grasp. I had to let him go."

"You don't have to tell me anymore, Rose," Julian said, his voice and hand shaking as he took another cigarette from his case, but Rose didn't hear him.

"Just after daybreak, we were rescued and I decided to allow my mother and fiancé to believe I was lost that night too. But I survived and now had to find a way to live on my own. I was a widow after only being married for a few days, but I was determined to survive on my own, on my own terms."

"I wish you had trusted Philippe and I with this years ago, Rose," Julian said softly and there was a critical tone to his voice.

Rose came back to herself and looked deeply into Julian's blue eyes. "I'm not telling you this so you can pity me, Julian Packard. I'm telling you this so can understand why I did what I did last night and why I'm so embarrassed to see my savior again in the light of day."

Julian nodded and Rose reached for his cigarette case. She fumbled one out and lit one, inhaling shallowly, letting her lungs become used to once again to the intrusion of nicotine. "Last evening as I was looking through a newspaper from my hometown, I discovered my mother had passed away. I wanted to say good bye in a way I felt was fitting so I walked out on the jetty past the Millionaire's Pier. I was not in the greatest state of mind, I now know, and as I stood there at the end of the rocks, the tide came in."

"Rose, you weren't, you weren't going to?" Julian said, unable to finish his thought.

"No." Rose said sharply, inhaling a puff of smoke again. "But my savior thought the same thing as you and followed me out onto the jetty, trying to lure me back to the boardwalk. I was very rude to him, not realizing as he did the waves could come up over the rocks at any time and push us both into the ocean, which is exactly what it did do. Only his quick thinking saved both of us from drowning or freezing to death, which is why I'm so embarrassed to see him again. I almost killed us both, just because I was so damn impulsive and thought it would be dramatic to stand at the foot of the Atlantic Ocean and say good bye to my mother."

"Rose, your unpredictability is one of your finer attributes. It's what makes you so attractive."

Rose stared at him with burning eyes, her mood turning rapidly to anger. "My unpredictability has already gotten one man killed and almost claimed another last night!" Her voice rose sharply and she closed her eyes as diners around them looked up at her in surprise.

"You can't blame yourself for what happened to your husband, Rose."

"Why can't I? If he never met me, he'd probably be alive today." Her mouth was suddenly filled with the taste of bitterness and her throat ached with defeat.

"Did you buy him passage on Titanic?"

Rose shook her head silently as an old familiar inner torment began to gnaw at her. "No, he was an American and had already planned to voyage home on that ship."

"Rose, I wasn't there, but I can't imagine you had anything to do with his death that night. For all you know, he would have died anyway. You can't continue to blame yourself."

Rose laughed, but it held no humor. "That's easier for you to say, Julian. You've never been through something like this. You don't know how it feels to survive, when so many other people perished."

"No, you're right, I don't. But I don't like to see you in pain and I'm sure your savior would understand if you just told him it felt right to stand there last night and say good bye to your mother. He doesn't need to know the full story, although I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me. Now put out that cigarette before it sets the table cloth on fire."

Rose's hand jerked convulsively as she realized how close the burning ember of the cigarette was close to burning her hand and the table. "Sheesh, I can't even smoke right." Rose said quietly, stubbing the cigarette out and looking up to Julian, thankful once again he was trying to lighten the mood.

"Have you ever talked to anyone about this before?" Julian asked.

Rose shook her head. "Honestly, you're only the second person I've met who knows I was on _Titanic_ that night. Please, don't tell anyone else, it's a very private, personal experience I went through."

Julian nodded as he thumbed his nose and looked towards her, his eyes burning once again with intensity. "You're secret is safe with me, but you can't allow what happened to hold you back any longer, Rose. I know it was a tragedy and I know it must have been horrible to live through. But you did live through it and you keep allowing the memories of that awful night to make you wish you hadn't. That needs to stop. I know it sounds easier then it must be, but Rose, you have to let it go."

"I know that, which is why I was on the jetty last night in the first place. It just seemed the perfect place to say good bye to all of it, my mother and Ja-, I mean my husband."

If Julian noticed her slip, he didn't acknowledge it.

"Did you do it?"

"What? Say good bye? Yes, actually I did. Even know, telling you the story today, my heart doesn't feel as if it's being squeezed in a vise as it usually does whenever I think of it. I will never forget it, I can't, but I may be able to accept why I was there and come to some realization about why I survived. I know in my heart it wasn't my fault that he died or that so many others innocent people died that night. But telling my head that is a totally different thing, especially when I sink into melancholy. I seem to want absolution for what happened, even though it wasn't my fault it happened. Does that make sense?"

"Of course it does. Rose, you went through an intense traumatizing experience. The fact you are here sitting with me is a testament to your will to survive."

"When did begin to analyze people, Julian? Have you been reading more of the Freud works I had given you in New Orleans?"

"I must say, the man has an interesting way at looking at the human psyche. Is everything sexual with him?"

Rose could only smile slightly at Julian's comment. "Sometimes I feel as if I'm such a vagabond or a ne'er do well. Why does it seem I can never do anything right?"

"Honey, you can do wonderful things right, which is one of the reasons I asked you here to our little luncheon," he said, watching her carefully as she picked up her fork to try her entree.

"Oh?"

"Do you remember Roderick Kincaid from our theatre days?"

"Of course, he was a major player for the LaSalle Theater Group. He tried to lure us away from the Theatre des Orleans many times."

"Well, he's here in Atlantic City. I had dinner with him two nights ago and your name came up, which makes it an even more amazing coincidence when I ran into you on the boardwalk this afternoon."

"What do you mean, my name came up?" Rose said as she put down her fork.

"He remembered you and wanted to know if you were still acting. He's putting together a group to study with the Comedie Francaise in Paris this spring. He asked me if I would like to join them and when he thought about whom else spoke fluent French who could also act, he remembered you and said it was a shame no one had heard from you in so long, he wished he could invite you along too."

As casually as she could manage, Rose took a sip of her wine. "Is this for real, Julian?"

"Well, you would have to meet with him again of course, but I was under the impression you would not have to audition for a place in the group, he wanted to invite you on the strength of the performances he had seen in New Orleans."

Rose could not believe her good fortune. Here was the opportunity she was searching for to travel and explore the world. It almost seemed too good to be true. "What about the pay? And who pays for the travel accommodations and lodging when we're there?"

"Ah, Rose, I love the practical side of your personality. All expenses are paid. The tour is for one year, we work six days a week, with a public run after six weeks. After the public run we are allowed two weeks off before we start it all over again. What do you think? Will you go?"

Rose bit her bottom lip as an overwhelming feeling of rightness over took her. "Are you going, too?"

Julian nodded as he watched her carefully, watching as her air of calm and self confidence flooded back into her face.

"Paris, in the springtime?" Rose smiled, showing perfect white even teeth. "How could I refuse?"


End file.
